Potions and Prejudice
by slipper balloon
Summary: Hogwarts a la Jane Austen. Alternate universe after OotP.
1. Default Chapter

Author's Note

This work is primarily Snape/Hermione. It diverges from canon after Order of the Phoenix.

All characters and plots recognizable are either the property of J.K. Rowlings, or stolen from Jane Austen, who at least is now public domain. That leaves precious little left that is just mine. Sigh.

A warning/caution: Apologies if I borrowed from fics other than J.K. Rowlings' and did not give credit where credit is due. At this point, my sense of what is canon and what is not is all a bit scrambled.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a taciturn man with poor social skills, a powerful stride, and long-fingered hands is a sex god in disguise. Decorum insists, however, that considerable time must elapse in our story before that fact's unveiling. We thus begin with Bill Weasley, dashing curse breaker of an easy affectionate nature, who had tired of adventuring his way through Africa and the Middle and Far East, and yearned for a life quieter and more provincial. As he was a wizard, teaching Defense against the Dark Arts at the Hogwarts School for Wizards and Witches in Scotland was a close approximation to his wishes. Professor Dumbledore, just retired as headmaster but maintaining an advisory position from his Italian villa, pushed heartily for Weasley's application, and the new Headmistress Minerva McGonagall grudgingly relented. Others often found themselves charmed by the antics of "those fun-loving Weasley men"; Professor McGonnagal remained unimpressed. While possessing a certain dry wit of her own, she did not appreciate Weasley humor. Slapstick was merely a weak man's rendering of the absurd, drained of its existential ramifications. _Patience, Minerva_, she had scolded herself. _You should rejoice that some young people remain untouched by the war_.

One young person who had not fared well was currently drinking tea in front of her. Hermione Granger, her parents dead at the hands of Death Eaters, was just beginning her third year apprenticing with Madame Pomfrey in the Hogwarts infirmary. Already, she was proficient with healing potions and spells far beyond her mentor's expectations, and her touch alone was able to knit tendons and mend flesh. Yet even now, though she would never tell Minerva, she sometimes woke up sobbing in her chambers, burying her face in the dull, wiry hair of a now aged Crookshanks. Her almost daily tea with Minerva was a still point, radiating calm back into the morning and forward into the evening. But her nights remained restless.

"Bill Weasley will be the new DADA teacher. He'll be here in a fortnight," Minerva said. Her distaste was evident.

"I had heard that rumour," said Hermione. "Parvati told me."

"Ah," said Minerva. She sipped her tea. "I told you that you might become friends."

"Mmm," said Hermione. "And I laughed in your face. But you were right, as usual. She is kindness incarnate, and there is no reason for me to scoff at that." She sighed. "It's strange, living in the aftermath of the war. I can't get used to it."

"And how does that concern Parvati?"

"I am drawn to things that seem – unspoiled and simple. I love her. I wish I could be her. And I feel superior to her, too. It's confusing."

"Parvati has suffered, too, remember."

"How could I forget?"

"I like to think that the light we saved when we defeated Voldemort shines in all of us, just in different ways. So does that famous Gryffindor courage. Seeing the good in everyone – an ability that Parvati against all odds still possesses – requires a special kind of courage indeed."

Hermione snorted. At Minerva's inquisitive glance, she said, "Do they send you to some Headmaster seminar on dispensing platitudes?"

At that, Minerva gave her low, throaty laugh. Hermione loved this laugh, especially when she elicited it, for it was as rare as it was heartfelt. Without warning, she suddenly thought of her mother's easy, loud, rolling laugh, the one that had always made her scrunch down into her seat at the movie theater. She clasped Minerva's hand across the table, and the older witch squeezed it as her laugh stilled. Hermione said nothing, knowing that Minerva understood without her speaking. The result of another Headmaster seminar, probably.

pp

Bill Weasley looked out the window of the Hogwarts Express, watching the familiar landscape as it passed. He had expected to feel _more_, he supposed. Nostalgia. Maybe a sense of homecoming – it was why he took the train, rather than Apparating, after all. He ran his hand along the short, red stubble on his head. The final job of his curse-breaking career, and he had managed to singe off all his hair, including his eyebrows. _Vain bastard_. _Missing your gorgeous locks when you're lucky to be alive._

A dark voice suddenly interrupted his reverie. "Mr. Weasley."

Bill grinned, glancing across the compartment at the tall gentleman sitting in the corner. "Professor Snape. I was wondering if you'd recognize me."

"Mmm. In spite of your attempts to masquerade as a cadaver."

"Nasty run-in with a Hell Fire."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "And thus you are fleeing back to the bosom of Hogwarts?"

"Nah," said Bill. "This was already a done deal."

" 'This' being…"

"I thought you knew. New DADA professor, at your service." Sweeping gesture.

Snape's eyes widened. "No," he said. "No, I didn't know. You see, I am only just returning myself."

pp

For two years Snape had researched the art of Haitian potion-making on the sun-drenched Caribbean isle. Amid the gaping stares of the locals, he wandered through sweaty markets, tall, pale, clad in full-length black robes. He studied rainforest vegetation, dissected tropical insects, mixed vial after vial of potions and balms. The Haitian tradition of potion-making prohibited the writing down of recipes. There were no magical books. The potion masters preserved their arts in carefully memorized lore, passed on only through ritual memorization. For the Haitians, if the recipe for a potion was committed to writing, its power diminished. It became an idea separate from the potion master, not an act or power, but a thing, discrete and external. This was a theory at odds with a man meticulous in his notes and documentation, but was not without merit. The Haitian versions of stock potions – Veritiserium, Arisium (the proper name for Pepperup) – were at once more potent and more mild. They often were tasteless and odorless, unlike their European counterparts. Yielding to their effects was blissful and effortless, like floating along a cool current on a hot day.

Jean Gérard Bertrand had been his mentor, a small-boned man of 70 years. He spoke English only haltingly, but they conversed well enough in French. He was a quiet man, speaking only when necessary. All his motions were meditative and measured, efficient and graceful. Watching him was in itself an education. Snape had always preferred working alone. But he did not mind Bertrand. On the contrary, the man had a calming effect on him. They moved around each other in the laboratory as if in a choreographed dance. They even breathed in unison – and thus Snape breathed slowly and measuredly. Despite the sunshine and emerald waters, Snape had begun almost to like Haiti.

But all good things must end. Dumbledore retired, and McGonnagal was promoted. They could no longer cover his potions classes. And a small part of him – very small, mind you – wanted to share his findings. He hadn't changed his curriculum in twenty years, after all. Before Disapparating to London, he embraced Bertrand, bid Bertrand's young daughter Marlene goodbye, and cast his glance wide to take in the palm trees and sand. The dungeon at Hogwarts seemed a long way away, indeed.

Who would have thought that on the train he would see a friendly face (hell, the nearly bald boy seemed nothing _but _face), much less that he would enjoy talking to him? Bill had been the only Weasley Snape had ever tolerated as a student, and age had improved him. They also had a lot to talk about. Six years as a curse breaker had given Bill enough stories to last through countless train rides. And as Haitian potion-making had its roots in Africa, Snape was extremely curious about magical practice there. While not exactly academic by nature, Bill was an excellent observer, with a brilliant mind for detail. He seemed to think in terms of picture and narrative, rather than abstraction and analysis, and that was fine with Snape. There was enough brooding analysis to be done when he reclaimed his dungeon.

"Professor Trelawny is _insisting_ that we go to meet him," said Parvati as she held Hermione's hand, tugging her down the narrow winding staircase.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Matchmaking, I suppose."

"Yes. She says she has _Seen_ that one of us will wind up with Bill."

"Look. Just because this place is like a bloody cloister doesn't mean that either of us is going to jump the first eligible – hel-_lo_." Through the window of the turret, she watched two men walk across the grounds, deeply engaged in conversation, one tall and dark, his long hair streaking across his face in the wind, the other almost bald, but tan and handsomely featured.

Parvati giggled. "Hermione. Move over. You're hogging the window." A pause, then, "Mmm. He can break my curse any day."

"What does that mean?" Hermione laughed. "That doesn't even mean anything!"

"Shhh. Stop being so exacting. You know I can't think when I'm flustered."

"Well. I guess Bill Weasley's spoken for. Who's Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?"

Parvati looked at her, barely containing her amusement. "Hermione. You're joking, right? That's Snape."

Long pause. "Ah. Yes, I see it now. He appears to have improved his hygiene. Funny the Headmistress didn't mention _he_ was returning to Hogwarts. Bet she's not thrilled with it."

"Well," said Parvati carefully, "He certainly was brave during the war – a spy and everything. Maybe he's just misunderstood."

"I'm sure. Deep beneath that scaly, sarcastic exterior, he just wants to be loved."

"You never know, Hermione." Parvati paused. "That doesn't mean I'm anxious to talk to him, again, though. Just looking at him is giving me the worst flashbacks to fifth-year potions."

"Am I right in assuming the Mr. Weasley Welcome Committee has been aborted?"

"Temporarily," said Parvati. They retreated up the stairs, just as they heard the entrance door squeak open below them.

"I'm nervous," said Parvati, as they made their way down the endless corridors of Hogwarts toward the Headmistress's chambers for the first staff meeting of the new school year.

"Don't be. Trust me," said Hermione. "Minerva will just introduce you – you don't have even to say anything."

"Not about _that_. About Bill. How do I look?"

Hermione was tempted to ignore the question, but, in a sudden burst of affection, turned to face her friend. "Beautiful, Parvati. Of course. When have you ever not?" And she gave her a quick embrace.

"I just hope I can string sentences together."

"If I remember _anything_ about Mr. Weasley, you won't need to."

They arrived at the meeting a little breathless and a few seconds late; the stairs of Hermione's favorite shortcut had suddenly decided to move on them like a Muggle escalator – the wrong way, of course. Parvati was slightly flushed. _Still beautiful_, thought Hermione. _Does she _ever _look bad?_ For herself, she didn't need a mirror to know that her face was red, her neck blotchy. Exercise always did that to her. Under her thick mess of curls, she could feel droplets of sweat dripping down her scalp and onto her neck.

"Ah," said Minerva, seated at the head of a large table. "Miss Granger and Miss Parvati. Decided to sprint here, I see?" She gestured toward the two empty seats.

"Stairs," panted Hermione. "Moved."

Minerva chuckled slightly before indulging in yet another platitude. "The thing about short cuts is that they rarely are so. Well. Now that we're all assembled, I shall introduce the new staff." She paused, and looked around the faculty assembled in the room, finally resting her eyes on Bill Weasley's handsome face. "You have all heard, no doubt, that Bill Weasley is joining us as the new instructor of the Defense against the Dark Arts." Bill nodded at the room, smiling slightly, seemingly at ease. "Professor Weasley has spent two years as an adjunct at the University of Cairo. Of course, his exploits as curse breaker for Gringott's are a legend in themselves. This practical experience could not come to us at a better time. Now that Voldemort is gone, I feel we need to revise our strategy. There are still many nasty pockets of bad magic out there. We need no longer focus all our instruction as if we are battling one dark enemy." Hermione looked at her. _Leave it to Minerva to make the best of a situation she isn't thrilled about_. _Perhaps Dumbledore has softened her a bit toward Bill_. "As you all have also no doubt noticed, Professor Snape has returned from his sabbatical in Haiti." Snape merely nodded at McGonnagal, his lips drawn into a slight sneer, his body rigid with what seemed like irritation. Hermione scowled. _Already wishing he were as far away from here as possible, the git. No one in the room even worth a second glance._ _Some things _do _never change. _"Finally, Parvati Patil will be apprenticing with Professor Trelawny in Divinations. Welcome to you all." Various mumblings of greeting and welcome arose from the staff.

The meeting turned to administrative business – curriculum changes, schedules, orientations, new rules. Hermione listened with only half an ear. The academic workings of the school didn't affect her much. Who would have thought that she would be divorced from the classroom? But the truth was, after the war, she had needed a break from all that ranking and grading. It seemed so absurd. Though she had gone through a bit of assessment withdrawal (she had tried to convince Madame Pomfrey to give her quarterly evaluations), she soon learned to delight in working for the sake of producing results alone. Young witches and wizards learning the craft of spells and potions, not to mention playing Quidditch, generated endlessly varied injuries and illness. She worked tirelessly, and often happily: it was simple, this healing of the body.

She was wrested from her thoughts by the feel of eyes on her. Looking up, she saw Snape staring at her, his face devoid of expression. She held his gaze. _Let him back down. I'm not some sniveling first-year._ He blinked and returned his dark gaze back to McGonnagal. She smirked to herself. _Only Snape would return from two years in the Caribbean with all the humor of a man who'd spent the time in Azkaban instead._

Soon enough, the Headmistress said, "Now that our official meeting is adjourned, I hope you will all stay and catch up on one another's summers. I am truly happy to see you all." She clapped (another page right out of the Dumbledore Manual to Headmastery), and an impressive array of drinks and edible dainties appeared. Minerva smiled broadly; she was going to like being Headmistress.

As the staff broke into friendly, animated conversation and began pouring drinks and nibbling (or devouring, in some cases), Hermione looked at Parvati, who was staring intently at a knot in the wooden floor as if it might suddenly open and reveal a step-by-step guide to approaching the former curse breaker across the room. "Ahem," said Hermione.

Parvati released the knot from her gaze, and looked up. She whispered, "Right. No, I can't. Okay, I will. God, there's no way."

"Parvati," said Hermione, an edge of irritation creeping into her whisper.

Parvati stared at her pleadingly. "Help?"

"You're kidding, right?" She sighed, exasperated. "What's in it for me? Just loneliness once you two go off together and snog."

"Now, now," said Professor Trelawny, swooping down on them. "You will not ingratiate yourself with the staff by whispering here in the corner."

Hermione had never quite gotten over her suspicion that her former Divination Professor was nothing but a charlatan, though she had heard rumours that she was instrumental in the war. Still, Hermione didn't quite feel up to a chat with her former teacher.

"As it happens, we were just about to go talk to Professor Snape about his sabbatical in Haiti," Hermione said. "Parvati has only now confessed a secret long-standing interest in Haitian brewing methods."

"I see," purred Trelawney. "It seems Bill Weasley shares your fascination – he has been monopolizing Severus' conversation since they arrived. I am sure that is but a – coincidence?"

Without responding, Hermione grabbed Parvati's hand and led her away from her mentor toward Bill and Snape.

"_Of course_ I find these attempts to make us socialize tiresome," said Professor Snape. "And, Weasley, it is only a matter of time before you will as well."

"And yet you're here."

"Well, I am willing to suffer lest I appear completely impolitic. In –" he pulled out his watch – "twenty-_three_ minutes now, I will return to my chambers."

Weasley laughed. "You are surrounded by some of the leading minds in wizardry. This room is full of fascinating conversations just waiting to be had. I can't imagine being so fastidious!"

"When you have spent more time here, you will learn that your colleagues have an inexplicable aversion toward, er, talking shop at these gatherings. They are interminable gossips and bores, every one."

Bill considered this. "Even McGonnagal?"

"Well, Minerva is an exception, but she has thrown herself with abandon into the role of inaccessible, wit-dispensing Headmistress, sans lemon drops, of course." He lowered his voice. "_Chips_ are her particular vice, though if you repeat this, I will deny having ever said it."

Bill chuckled, then scanned the room, his eyes briefly lighting upon the two young apprentices engaged with Trelawney, before returning his attention to the Potions Master. "I can't imagine Hermione Granger is the least interested in gossip. I don't know her too well, but to hear my little brother Ron speak about it, she is incapable of talking about anything _besides _shop."

"Miss _Granger_," said Snape, with a tired air. "I had rejoiced upon her graduation that Hogwarts would at last be free of that insufferable know-it-all. McGonnagal of course _conveniently _kept the fact of her return from me when she called me back to Hogwarts, lest it adversely affect my decision."

"Surely age and – all that's happened – will have mellowed her a bit," pursued Bill. "And Ron seems to think she's rather a genius. Word on the street is that she has Hands of Healing, too – that's fascinating, anyway."

Snape paused. Bill thought for a minute he might be gaining the upper hand, but in truth, Snape was torn between continuing his attack on his former student's virtues, and lambasting his new friend for using the phrase "word on the street." He opted for continuity.

"_Hands of Healing_, indeed. You've been talking to Pomfrey. Her own deficiency in that particular attribute requires that she overstate its rarity. At any rate, it is nothing to be fascinated by. It is like having a keen sense of smell – a purely genetic occurrence of no earned merit. And I am not in humour to give consequence to mere _apprentices _– no matter their academic –"

"Uh, Snape?" Bill whispered fiercely.

"record, particularly when they are more concerned with _performing_ their knowledge than –"

"Snape!" Bill said again.

At the same time another voice, in tones of dripping sweetness, said, "Professor Snape, how long it's been. You remember Parvati, I am sure. Bill, I am delighted you are joining us at Hogwarts."

Bill, his face bright red, bent to kiss her on the cheek, and then turned and shook Parvati's hand. "Nice to meet you, Parvati. Hermione, I, er" – he glanced at Snape – "Mum sends her love, of course."

If Bill looked rather like someone had just come down hard on his toe and he had, for politeness' sake, to pretend otherwise, Snape revealed no discomfiture. "Miss Granger. Miss Patil." He nodded at each of them, his eyes dark and steady.

"Now, I hope you will excuse me," Hermione said. "I need to return to the clinic and _perform_ some overrated skills of little merit." She gave Parvati's hand a squeeze. "See you later tonight?" Then – "Good afternoon, Bill." She swept from the room; only when the door was safely shut behind her did her body began to tremble.

Which left Bill, Parvati, and Snape wordlessly contemplating one another, Hermione's words hanging in the air between them. The silence was broken by the sound of Snape's watch being withdrawn from his pocket. "Ah. Thirty minutes have passed, Weasley. I'll leave you to a fascinating conversation with Miss Patil, then. Good day." He walked slowly from the room, mindful of allowing Miss Granger a considerable head start.

Which left Bill and Parvati.

A pause. "Start over, maybe?" said Bill. "Hi?"

"Hi," she replied, smiling shyly.

"Insufferable man," muttered Hermione as she made her way back to her chambers, shaking in her rage and distress. She had, in fact, no work to do in the infirmary. There were no students yet, after all – a fact Snape would no doubt figure out if he found her worth the time to consider, which he obviously did not. _How dare he?_ she thought. _How dare he? _It became a kind of mantra, beating in time with her soft footfalls on the stone floor. _How dare he?_

_How dare he what, exactly?_

_How dare he return to Hogwarts as if nothing had changed? How dare he insult me as if I were still a student? As if… as if I haven't changed, haven't been fundamentally altered forever? I have _earned _my right to be here. How dare he? How dare he remain the same, the same bitter, cruel man. There is no light in him, none at all. Why should he live, when so many others…_

She thrust her way into her chambers, muttering wildly, and then, for the first time during the daylight in over two years, began to sob helplessly. She threw herself onto her bed, curling her knees up toward her chest. When she at last came to herself, she was crying for her mother.

-----

Some notes on Chapter 1:

1. From P&P:

"I would not be so fastidious as you are… for a kingdom." (Bingley criticizes Darcy for refusing to dance at a provincial gathering.)

"I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men." (Darcy rejects Elizabeth as a dancing partner, which she overhears. Unlike Hermione, Elizabeth easily laughs off his comment.)

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." (The famous opening sentence, which I used twice because – well, why not? It rules.)

2. The final line of this chapter borrows somewhat from, of all places, Douglas Adams' _Hitchhiker's Guide_, though Arthur's weeping for his mother followed on the heels of his lamenting the demise of the Big Mac, among other things.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Madame Pomfrey is considering a sabbatical," said Minerva the next day. She sipped her tea thoughtfully.

"She mentioned," Hermione said. "I'm not sure I'm ready."

"You are. Poppy says you are quite competent in all the skills necessary. And of course, you do possess the Hands of Healing. It has been over thirty years since Hogwarts…"

"I know, I know. And I'm grateful for this – talent. I think I could _do_ the work, Minerva. It's not that. It's just –" she trailed off. "I don't trust myself. Not yet. I know I look like I'm holding it all together, but it's all so – so precarious for me right now. If there were some crisis…."

"You would handle it – as you have done in the past when the stakes were much higher." Minerva studied her. "Something has happened. What? Why don't you tell me?" Hermione looked at her tea, swirling it. "If that Bill Weasley has so much as –"

"Please!" Hermione said loudly, surprising Minerva. "I can't even think about that right now. Besides, I think he has eyes for someone else."

"Yes, of course, the _beautiful_ Parvati. Some things never change. But never mind that. It's you I'm worried about."

Hermione wavered for a moment, and then told her about Snape's comments, and her outburst. Minerva considered her quietly. "With the war over, it's all a game for Severus, you know. Words mean little to him, really. He just tosses them around for sport."

"I don't really care about his opinion. At least, not very much. It's just, it's been over two years, Minerva. I – I've been doing so well, I felt like I was finally putting the past behind me, and Snape made me feel like, God, like I was still a seventh-year, on the cusp of all of _that_ all over again. I feel like I'm taking giant steps backward. It's just so unexpected." Her eyes began to fill with tears again. "I feel like some door's been unlocked, maybe even created, I don't know. And I have no control over it. It might be flung open at any time, without my permission."

"Hermione," scolded Minerva. "You must forgive yourself for grieving. You can't _schedule _it, you know."

Hermione shook her head sadly. "But I had been. I'd really gotten quite good at it."

pp

Madame Pomfrey did take her sabbatical, leaving Hermione in charge of the infirmary. The Headmistress has predicted correctly: she was up to the challenge. Acid burns from Potions, sprained ankles from flying lessons, abrasions and burns from Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures, stubborn hexes from Bill's DADA: her day saw a constant influx of students. She loved having a clear and narrow purpose – to make the students healthy again. It was a simple life in some ways. There was enough variation in the cases to make it challenging, but there were right answers, right ways to do things, and clear, measurable results.

Until one day a frantic Bill Weasley ushered Parvati Patil's comatose body into the clinic via a _mobilocorpus_ spell. "She's been hexed by my fifth-years – got caught in the cross-fire. I have no idea what curses – or in what combination! I can't get her to respond. _Finite Incantatem_ isn't working. Damn that Cybil!"

Hermione allowed herself a moment of personal concern for her friend before burying it beneath her professional mode. "Bring her into that room, there. Let me check her vitals." She ran her hand over Parvati's body, sensing. "Mmmm. Pulse rate normal. Blood pressure a bit low. Temperature normal."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Muggle stuff. My methods are something of a hybrid. She seems more or less stable. Has her condition altered any since she was hexed?"

"No."

"Okay. I need you to track down your fifth-years. Get a list of _every_ hex they performed at that moment. Also, I need you to give me the rank order of your students, and rate the difficulty of the hexes they were performing." She met Bill's puzzled gaze. "It will eliminate some of the guess work when I determine the sequence." Bill nodded, and dashed off, glad to be doing something of use.

Three days later, Hermione was beside herself with frustration. She had attempted to undo the curses in every combination. Bill spent every spare moment pacing in the clinic, setting her nerves on edge. "What if we sent for Pomfrey?"

"I have communicated with Poppy. She has only suggested what I have already done. I have also been in contact with the Dark Arts specialist at St. Mungo's. He is at a loss, as well."

"McGonnagal?"

"In London, still, her location unplottable. Ministry meeting."

Bill swept a dark lock off of Parvati's damp forehead. "I can't take this any more. I can't take not being able to _do_ anything."

"Always the man of action," said Hermione. "I'm sorry, Bill," she said quickly when he gave her a hurt look. "I'm just as upset as you are. Why don't you get some rest? If this keeps up, we're _all _going to need a sabbatical…" Hermione froze for a minute. "Bill? Before you do get some rest, will you fetch Professor Snape for me?"

pp

"Miss Granger," Snape intoned as he stepped into the clinic. "I heard you had requested my services."

For Parvati's sake, Hermione had promised herself that she would push thoughts of his earlier rudeness aside, but she couldn't help scanning his face for a sign of contrition. His gaze remained flat, unreadable. "How much did Bill tell you?"

"Enough – but I do not understand how I may be of assistance."

Hermione looked at Parvati's still, breathing form. "It's just a hunch, really. I've been reading up lately on Haitian potionry." Snape's eyes widened slightly – perhaps in surprise. She continued, "Haitian potions are, if my source is correct, somewhat purified of their constituents. The brewer's own elemental force infuses the potion, neutralizing the physical components. Or perhaps more accurately, transforming them into spiritual ones."

"Miss Granger, surely you did not summon me merely to lecture on a subject I have spent the last two years studying."

"I am only attempting to explain my thought process, Professor. Haitian potions are, in a way, akin to wandless magic – in which the wizard, not the wand, is the medium." Snape nodded neutrally. Hermione paused for a moment, dreading her next words. "And, in that way, they are akin to Hands of Healing, as well."

His eyes narrowed. "You are likening that – accidental skill to an art passed on for centuries, preserved only through the most rigorous dedication? Your hubris knows no bounds. I had hoped you left your tendency toward self-aggrandizement behind when you left the classroom."

"Professor Snape!" Hermione snapped, and, grabbing him by the shoulder, turned him brusquely toward Parvati Patil. "Look at her. If you believe for one moment that I called you in here to prove some petty point when my friend is lying there, not responding to _any_ of my ministrations – I can only assume you judge me according to your own code of ethics. I am asking you for your help. Believe me, I would turn to any one else in this castle before you if I could – and that includes bloody Filch. But I've only one idea right now, and unfortunately, it involves you."

Snape sighed, and then sat down. He gestured at the chair opposite. "Tell me your idea, Miss Granger."

She sat down. "I want to use the Hands of Healing to reverse the curses."

"Miss Granger, the Hands of Healing are only useful in –"

"Healing bodily injuries, not magical ones. Now you are lecturing me on _my_ area of expertise, Professor. My hope is that, in conjunction with a Haitian-brewed augmenting potion, I might be able to do more than heal bodily injury."

Snape eyed her intently. Perhaps he was interested, in spite of himself. "Go on."

"The augmenting potion has always been rather weak – probably due to the compounding effects of the physical elements of the potion and the physical elements of the wand. But the Haitian potion, purified of its physical elements, used in conjunction with wandless magic…?"

"You feel you might be able to minister directly to the spirit?"

She nodded. "Wand magic works only in one direction. I've been using trial and error for a week now and getting nowhere. When I use the Hands of Healing, I – it is hard to explain – I _communicate _with my patient's body. If I can minister directly to her spirit, it will be no mystery to me which curses were cast and when. Her spirit will unfold to me. I'll be able to read it like a book. At least, that is my hope." She waited for him to mock her idea, to cast it down.

"I shall help you, Miss Granger," he said.

She attempted to register no surprise. "How long will the potion take to brew?"

pp

Four days later, she discovered a small, blue glass vial sitting on her desk, along with instructions in Snape's elegant hand. "Well, he is efficient, for all that," she mused to herself. Then – "No time like the present."

She knelt on her padded stool at Parvati's side, and carefully administered fifteen drops of the tasteless, odorless potion into her mouth. She had barely returned the vial to the bedside table when she was overcome by a radiating heat that began in her core and plunged out toward her fingertips and the bottoms of her feet. Her entire body began to pulse with a furious energy. She felt as if she were a single muscular organ sucking magic into itself and then pumping it out into the space around her. She was dizzy with the power of it, and almost forgot where she was and why. But by chance, her hand grazed Parvati's, and tingled as if conducting an electrical current. She remembered then. She placed a hand on Parvati's forehead, and another on her chest. For a few painful moments, she felt as though her body might vibrate apart and take Parvati with her. But then, all substance seemed turned to light.

When Hermione was seven, her parents had rented a cabin in Norway. The first night she had only just fallen asleep, her body confused by the late and prolonged setting of the summer sun, when her father had gently shaken her. Wordlessly he pulled her out of bed, tugged at her hand, and led her to the small porch, a wad of blankets under his arm. Once outside, Hermione quickly lost all sense of tiredness when she saw the curtains of light rippling across the sky – green, magenta, yellow. Dazzling, shimmering arches rose, intertwined, fell. In her father's lap, the magic she witnessed in the sky seemed inseparable from the man who wrapped his arms gently around her beneath the blankets. "The Northern Lights," he whispered. "Aurora Borealis." It had sounded to her like an incantation, a spell.

Fifteen years later, Hermione Granger relived the entirety of that memory in less than a second, before melding into the rippling ribbons of light that had once been her body, Parvati's body. The ribbons stretched and wound, prodded and retreated in a communication clearer than any words Hermione had ever heard or read. The last thing she remembered, she was reeling the light around her like thread round a spool, righting all that had been wronged.

pp

"Hermione?" Parvati said anxiously. "Can you hear me at all?"

Her friend stirred slightly, mumbling.

"Do you think she'll be alright, Professor Snape?"

"Knowing Miss Granger, I doubt she'll be able to resist coming to and gloating over her success."

"Hermione?" Parvati tried again.

Hermione's eyes flickered slightly, opened, focused on a point somewhere above Parvati's shoulder, and closed. She then whispered, as if in awe, "It's beautiful, Daddy. Oh! Do it again. Please?"

Parvati looked at Snape, questioningly.

"Those are the same words she directed at me as I carried her to the bed. I confess to feeling slightly relieved that you now share the honor of being confused with her father." Snape paused, clearing his throat. "Miss Patil, I am not a Healer, but I am certain that you need to rest, and to get some food. You have been unconscious for over a week."

Parvati gaped. "You can't be serious! Over a week? I feel – wonderful."

"That may be so. I am not sure exactly what Miss Granger did to you, but however restored you may be, the fact remains that you have not used your muscles in some time, and they are bound to have atrophied. I would not be surprised were you to begin to feel some fatigue quite soon simply from standing. Ah, Mr. Weasley. I am glad you received my message. Perhaps you can escort Miss Patil to the kitchen?"

"Parvati! You're awake." Bill was grinning from ear to ear, until his eyes lighted on Hermione. "What –"

"She will be fine, I believe. She has merely overextended herself. Please escort Miss Patil." Bill looked torn. "I shall attend Miss Granger. Now, go!"

Bill offered Parvati his arm, and she gripped it, steadying herself, as Snape's prediction rapidly became reality. "No solid foods, Weasley," Snape called after him.

Snape settled himself in a chair and considered Hermione's sleeping form quietly for a moment or two, before dropping his gaze, lost in thought. He was still contemplating the floor, his fingers thrumming the arm rest, when, an hour later, Hermione woke. He seemed to sense her moving, and looked up.

Their eyes met. "It worked," she said in a weak, but triumphant voice. "Didn't it?"

"Miss Patil should be resting safely in her chambers as we speak."

"I have never experienced anything like that in my life," she whispered.

"And shan't again," he snapped. "It is too dangerous."

"No!" she said, her voice cracking. "Nothing like that could be dangerous. Oh, Professor, have you any idea? It was, it was like communing with God! It was like _being_ God! I've never –" She blinked, and tears began to roll down her face.

"Your description only solidifies my resolve _never _to make this potion again," he growled. "I will summon the Headmistress. She should be arrived back from London now. I bid you good day." He exited, robes billowing behind him.

Hermione closed her eyes in an attempt to stem the flow of tears and to shut out the sunlight that streamed in through the high window. Thus the Headmistress found her a few moments later.

pp

The next evening, Parvati and Hermione strolled along the school grounds. Both felt mostly recovered, though Parvati fatigued easily. They walked slowly, exchanging stories, filling each other in on all the missing pieces.

"So Sibyll sent me through the back passageway to deliver the faulty divination rods to Bill, probably _knowing_ something like this would happen. I know she's only trying to help, but I do wish she'd stop forcing me to cross his path. It makes me feel so foolish. If Bill wanted to seek me out, he would."

"He was beside himself with worry when you were unwell."

"He's _kind_, Hermione. And he feels awful about it. He blames himself for forgetting to lock the back passageway before the fifth-years began practicing their curses."

Hermione laughed. "Yes. I'm _sure _it is kindness that made him spend every possible moment by your bedside."

"Please, Hermione. Don't tease me. Not about this." She stopped walking. "How did you heal me? Bill said he didn't know."

Hermione explained Snape's potion and her theory. She could not bring herself to describe the actual healing; there had been something overwhelmingly intimate about it. Yet she also burned with the desire to tell _someone_ about the most potent magical experience of her life. Perhaps Snape would ask her about it, unable to restrain his professional curiosity. She closed her eyes, trying both to block out and to relive the vision of pulsing, intertwining ribbons of light, and was startled by the feel of lips brushing her cheek. "Thank you, Hermione. Thank you for saving me."

They walked back quietly to Hogwarts, holding hands, each deep in thought.

pp

No one would mistake Severus Snape for a romantic. He preferred Lord Byron's self-mocking, satiric _Don Juan_ to "She Walks in Beauty." Wordsworth was right out. But it was a little-known secret that he did enjoy an evening stroll through the woods that flanked the Forbidden Forest, especially in October, when the nights were cool and smelled of the winter to come. _O trees!_ he thought, smirking to himself, then stopped when he saw two dark figures facing one another in the path ahead. When one bent its head slightly to press a kiss on the other's cheek, he thought to turn back, feeling this scene was not his to witness, but they began to walk back toward the castle, hand in hand. It was then he recognized their form and gait: Hermione Granger and Parvati Patil – the very subject of his thoughts on this evening walk, and on others as well. He scowled slightly. Whether this scowl was directed outward at the two figures retreating into the castle, or inward, even he did not know.

pp

Hermione organized her infirmary with the methodical fanaticism that once characterized her studies. Each treatment she rendered found itself summarized in copious notes which she cross-referenced in an ever-growing index. Evenings found her banishing all traces of her day's work, as she filled vials for the next day's use, cleaned delicate equipment, returned all references to the large, newly organized bookshelf that filled the wall of her office. She did not trust house elves to meet her meticulous standards. What's more, though she wouldn't have readily admitted it, it was her favorite part of the day. She hummed as she worked: all things in their proper place, all things restored to new.

"I was unaware of your penchant for Bach cantatas, Miss Granger."

She jumped, then spun around to face the man who had intruded on her solitude. She felt unaccountably furious, and slightly vulnerable. "How long have you been standing in my doorway, Professor?"

"Just long enough to recognize the strains of 'Sleepers, Wake,' and to observe that academic precision remains your modus operandi." Snape gestured at a chair inside her office. "May I?"

Unable to think of a suitable response, she nodded. She completed the little that remained of her evening regimen, all the while battling the mutinous flush she could feel rising to her face and spreading down to her neck. Snape remained silent. When she had finished, she turned to face him. "Why are you here, Professor?"

He motioned her to sit down in the chair next to his. She strode past it, and sat behind her desk. Instantly, a wave of fatigue swept over her – this was why she never stopped working until she returned to her chambers. Stopping generally resulted in collapse.

Snape was scrutinizing her. "You are tired. Shall I come back another time?"

"No. Now will do." _Why put off the unpleasant?_

As if he had read her thoughts, the corners of his lips lifted in an ironic half-smile. "As you wish."

"Tea?" she asked, unable to quell her hostess instinct.

The half-smile remained. "Something stronger, perhaps?"

"I have only Scotch – Muggle Scotch, Professor." Fine Scotch had been her father's vice of choice, as he called it. Her desk currently held three of his favorites.

"That will do."

Lifting a panel from her immaculate desk, she pulled out a bottle of Glendronach and a heavy glass. Deftly, she replicated the glass, poured a generous splash in each, and pushed one across the desk toward him. He raised an eyebrow at her, correctly reading the gesture as a reluctance to risk actually touching him. "I see you are not in the habit of entertaining." She eyed him quizzically. "Only one glass."

"Yes, well – Professor, you correctly surmised that I am tired. I know you did not come here to taste-test Muggle Scotch, or to discuss my entertaining habits. Will you please state your purpose?"

"I want to hear about your healing of Miss Patil."

"Why now? It's been weeks," she said, sounding a bit petulant in spite of herself.

"I have only now received a reply from my Haitian mentor, Potions Master Bertrand, to my letter on the subject."

"Jean Gérard Bertrand?"

"Of course."

She felt a thrill shoot through her. "And?"

"He is intensely curious. Using Hands of Healing with a Haitian augmenting potion has, to his knowledge, not been done before."

"Does this mean you'll let me – "

"No," he said emphatically. "It does not. We know too little about this combination of powers. Yet Master Bertrand wants a full account of the healing."

His feigned lack of interest was becoming tiresome. "Well, I will write to Master Bertrand directly, then," she asked.

"As you wish," he said. He finished his Scotch and rose to leave.

_Oh hell_, she thought. _Bluff and double bluff_.

He paused at the doorway. "One more item, Miss Granger," he said. "How do you feel about Miss Patil?"

"Excuse me?" Whatever she had been expecting, that had not been it.

"Miss Patil. I do not recall her being a favorite of yours while you were a student here."

She stared at him. "I am at a complete loss as to why this would be of any interest to you whatsoever."

"Your intellects are incompatible, and your temperaments quite opposed."

In spite of herself, she rose to the bait. "Is it so beyond your comprehension that I might like her for precisely that reason?"

"Tsk. You used to have more productive ways of validating your sense of superiority."

Hermione stood suddenly, her eyes flashing. "I once again ask that you do not judge me according to your own ethics, Professor. Is simple mutual affection so beyond your Slytherin imagining?"

"If you are one of the parties, then yes."

"How dare you presume to know anything about me? I am not the same girl that sat in your classroom for seven years."

"Believe me, I am quite aware of that, Miss Granger."

She made her way around her desk, almost shaking in rage and exhaustion. "Professor Snape, out of respect for Master Bertrand, I will send an account of the healing to Haiti. As you seem more interested in my personal attachments than my professional skills, I will not bother to give you a copy. Now. Get out of my office. I will charitably credit this discussion to your inexperience with Muggle Scotch."

He stood for a moment, his face playing out some unknown conflict.

"Get out," she said, more quietly, sinking into a chair. "Please."

He nodded wordlessly, and left. Instead of walking back to his chambers, Severus Snape stalked into the woods, furious at Miss Granger for rendering him tongue-tied, and furious with himself for handling the conversation so ill. Neither of his questions was any nearer to being answered than it had been when he had finally brought himself to see her. As he walked, he tried to suppress the image of Hermione Granger rising to confront him, her small hands gripping the desk in fury, her breaths shortened, her blush of anger creeping down her neck. Yes, he would do well to avoid the infirmary for a while.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Hogsmeade weekend was nigh, and Hermione dreaded her role as chaperon. Adolescents had, after all, made her uncomfortable even when she had been one. If they were writhing in discomfort or pain in her clinic, at her mercy to cure their ailments, they did not trouble her. But when they were released into an unstructured space, hormones allowed free play, she found them rather terrifying.

The younger ones flocked to Parvati, sensing her benevolence. Flanked by Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, she wandered from store to store. Hermione followed after her as well, somewhat at a loss, wishing for the day to be over. Though Parvati's presence comforted her, her mood remained dark. She felt vaguely guilty – everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. _Everyone except Snape_, she corrected herself. He too looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. His eyes suddenly seized her gaze before he stalked off. Such exchanged looks had occurred with alarming frequency ever since he had confronted her in her office, but he had not spoken to her since. She had hoped that his intellectual curiosity would, like hers, overcome any personal aversion. Probably he did not want to encourage her. They must be stares of censure, of criticism.

She abandoned these thoughts when a very familiar voice called out from across the street, "Hermione?"

"Harry Potter!" she cried, and rushed toward him, flinging herself into his arms. He picked her up and twirled her around once, before holding her at arm's length.

"Hermione! It is really you, isn't it? You look fantastic!"

"You don't look too bad yourself," she grinned, squeezing his arms. The gangly teen-ager at the center of all her Hogwarts remembrances was no more.

"I'm sorry I haven't returned your letters, 'Mione. You have no idea what it's like  
being –" he trailed off.

"Being a hero," she completed for him, smiling. "I can't imagine. I have at least been allowed to retire to a quiet life."

"Apprenticing with Madame Pomfrey. Ron told me all about it. You really should have received more credit, you know. It doesn't seem fair. No one seems to even know about your contributions to the war. You relinquished all your charm patents to the Ministry… I don't understand."

Hermione felt a lump rising in her throat at the look of concern in his handsome, honest face. "I'm living the life I want to, Harry. It suits me. For now."

"If you say so. Hey, let me buy you a butterbeer. Haven't had one in ages."

They turned to go to the Three Broomsticks when Hermione suddenly realized that Parvati and her entourage were staring at her with a kind of hungry jealousy. Harry walked toward them with easy confidence. "Hello, Parvati," Harry said, bending to kiss her swiftly on the cheek. "Do you mind if Hermione and I catch up a bit?"

Parvati smiled sweetly. "Of course not. I've got them under control. If they all don't swoon, that is. It's not every day we get to see a celebrity in the flesh."

Harry blushed. "Thanks. Shall we?" He offered Hermione his arm. She could not help but smile at his gallantry. The Harry she remembered would have bolted ahead of her, and then looked back in impatience.

They were chatting easily, almost at the door of The Three Broomsticks, when suddenly Harry froze as if he had been hit with Stupefy. Hermione quickly followed his stunned gaze, only to find that it was directed at Severus Snape. Snape was similarly frozen, his face in its customary sneer, his eyes narrowed. It was not an unfamiliar look, and Hermione would have thought nothing of it were it not for Harry's obvious distress, and for a glimpse at Snape's long-fingered hands clenched into fists so tight the knuckles had turned white.

Harry half nodded at him in greeting. Snape remained motionless. Then, abruptly, he turned and strode away, his robes streaming behind him.

After a pause, Harry gave a short laugh. "You know, I think he enchants his robes to billow like that." Hermione laughed, relieved, as he led her into the tavern. He graciously ignored the whispers that followed in his wake as they made their way to an inconspicuous table in the corner.

Once they had ordered, Hermione said, "Minerva inquired after you just yesterday. I confess I had very little to tell her. What have you been doing?"

"A lot of little things, but nothing big. Just resting on my laurels, I guess. Wearing out my hero's welcome. I wanted to get a job at the Ministry but – it didn't work out." He shrugged, then suddenly grinned. "So it's Minerva now, is it? You really are becoming one of them, aren't you?"

"In some ways. I'm still an apprentice, though I'll be done after this year. There's a pretty strict hierarchy – especially for people like Snape."

"There's no one _like_ Snape," said Harry, suddenly serious. "And for that, I am truly grateful."

Hermione considered him quietly, deciding not to pursue the matter for now. She knew that Harry had saved Snape's life the night of Voldemort's defeat, but the details of what had happened in Tom Riddle's cottage remained a mystery to everyone. It added to the Harry Potter mystique, she supposed.

"Tell me all about your work," Harry was saying. If he had meant to distract her, it worked; she happily spoke of her years at the infirmary. Unlike the old Harry, this one seemed to really listen.

"So you were able to heal these curses with nothing but your hands? Hermione, that's fantastic!"

"It was. Unfortunately, I'll never be able to again. Snape thinks it's too dangerous. Refuses to make the potion."

"Too dangerous," Harry scoffed. "Hermione, promise me you won't let Snape stand in your way."

"What do you mean?"

"I would hate it if some git's personal grudge against me got in the way of your career. This is big stuff. Who knows where it might lead?"

Hermione frowned disbelievingly. "You think Snape refuses to make the potion because of _you_? He's a sarcastic, bitter man, but I don't think he's petty. If anything, he seemed to want to protect me. I guess I believe that underneath it all he's – honorable?" Harry shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "This is about what happened in Tom Riddle's cottage, isn't it?"

"Hermione," he said softly, "you know I don't talk about what happened there."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to trespass..."

"It's okay." Harry sighed, and then looked up suddenly at her face, searchingly. "I trust you, Hermione. You know that. If I were to tell anyone, it would be you."

Hermione met his gaze for a moment before turning away. She eyed the grandfather clock across the room. "I should probably head back." She looked back at him. "Walk me home?"

The intensity of his expression suddenly faded and he grinned. "I'm spending the night at Hagrid's, anyway. Was going to surprise you, of course." Harry rose and held out his hand, which she grasped. He pulled her gently to her feet so that she was facing him a comfortable step away. Reaching out, he pushed a curly lock from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. "It's wonderful to see you, Hermione."

"Likewise."

Before they parted ways that night, his face became grave again. "Listen, stay away from Snape. Find another way to get the potion. Spend a summer in Haiti and learn how to make it yourself. If Snape can do it, surely you can." He kissed her quickly on the cheek, and retreated into Hagrid's cabin.

pp

Harry decided to extend his visit a few weeks until the Halloween Ball. Hermione was delighted, and not only due to a renewal of her attraction to him. Though many things had changed about her, the post-Voldemort Hermione still could not resist a puzzle. What had happened in Tom Riddle's cottage? Why did Snape detest Harry? Perhaps he could not stand that Harry, of all people, had saved his life. Yet that did not explain Harry's obvious reservations regarding Snape.

A part of Hermione hoped to witness another confrontation between them, but Harry refused to eat in the Great Hall ("too many stares"), and Snape seemed to keep to the dungeons even more than usual. She caught a few glimpses of him, but he always disappeared around the corner or through a door when she approached, even if she was alone. He was clearly avoiding them both.

Though the infirmary still kept her hands full, her evenings were free. She spent the time with Harry, mostly just sitting in her chambers talking. He had the same easy, winning nature she remembered from their school days, but it was tempered by an adult confidence and wisdom. Few had seen as much of good and evil by their twenty-second year. Harry wore it well. And while the old Harry had rolled his eyes alongside Ron whenever Hermione talked about her work or her research, quickly moving the conversation to quidditch, this one did not. He listened intently when she described her attempts to combine Muggle medicine and Healing, and supported her when she told him she was considering going to Muggle medical school after she completed her apprenticeship.

"I had thought this apprenticeship was a kind of retreat," Harry said thoughtfully. "But it seems you've found your calling."

"You're partly right. I might not have come back to Hogwarts if it hadn't been for my – parents and everything, but I think I would have pursued this field. I worked under Poppy in triage during the final battle. That's when I discovered I possessed Hands of Healing – to my great surprise as well as everyone else's. Poppy encouraged me to come work with her."

Toward the end of the first week of his visit, they found themselves lying opposite each other on her carpet, their heads propped up on pillows, their feet touching companionably. A single candle shone dimly in the corner of the room; she could not make out his expression. It made it easy to talk, and she found herself, at his prompting, describing her healing of Parvati – the memory of her father, the ribbons of light, the odd mix of complete power and complete surrender.

When she had finished, it was a long moment before he said, "That's heady stuff, Hermione. I can see why Snape's afraid of it."

"Yes – but I feel like I can control it, especially with practice. And it doesn't feel like dark magic. More like its opposite. Dark magic is inflicting one's will on another. This was more like a – communion. It was the most intimate communion with another person I've ever had, in fact. I loved Parvati as a friend before, but she's a sister to me now. A twin even. I know when she's entered the room, without even looking." She frowned for a second, thinking. "You know, that's probably why Snape asked me all those questions about Parvati. Why can't that bastard just come out and ask about my experience with the potion? Why must he make it all so difficult?" The shadowy outline of Harry's head cocked to one side – a rather endearing, puppyish response. She smiled into the darkness, before explaining the bizarre confrontation she had had with Snape in her office.

"Snape can't stand being vulnerable," Harry said. "He can't stand depending on other people. You must have figured that out by now."

"He depends on Jean Gérard Betrand easily enough. Harry, it's _me_ he can't stand." She told him about his comments at the staff meeting. "He's intensely interested in my healing of Parvati. I can tell. But he won't talk to me about it just because I irritated him as a student. It's so ridiculous. It's true I dislike him, but I want to _pursue _this."

Harry sighed and sat up, crossing his legs beneath them. Hermione's feet tucked beneath his crossed shins. He gently grasped her heels, rubbing his thumbs in circles along the tops of her feet. Yet he seemed miles away as he stared at the floor beside her.

"Harry?"

"Yes," he mumbled absently. Then his head snapped up as if he'd made a sudden decision. His thumbs ceased their gentle movement. "Hermione, I want you to stay away from Snape."

"Haven't you been listening? That won't be a problem. He wants nothing to do with me."

Another long pause. Then Harry began. "Listen. That night, at Tom Riddle's cottage, Snape was there."

Hermione sat up slightly. This was it. Her whole body tensed with the act of listening, and she wished she could see his face.

"When I walked into the cottage, I discovered him kneeling before Voldemort."

Hermione felt a knot form in her stomach. "Well – he was a spy. Couldn't he have been playing a role?"

Harry continued quietly, "I didn't know – I didn't wait to find out. I just cursed Voldemort with avada kadevra. You know, he was so close to being immortal by that point that it nearly killed me to cast it. I doubt it would have worked at all had my wand not contained a feather from the same phoenix as his."

"And Snape?"

The grip on her ankles tightened. "When I was midspell, Snape attempted to disarm me. He used _expelliarmus _first, and then, when it failed, he came at me out of nowhere, tried to wrest my wand from me – with his bare hands." He shook his head. "The force of the spell being cast hurled him back against the wall. He was knocked unconscious. I'm surprised he even survived. When I'd finished with Voldemort, I hauled Snape from the cottage, as you and everyone else knows. When he finally came to in the triage unit, he asked for me. He was so contrite I couldn't bring myself to make the story public. He wept – Snape wept! – saying he had surrendered to despair, begging my forgiveness. I couldn't refuse him. You understand, don't you?"

Hermione stared at him, taking it all in. "No wonder he looked at you like that outside the Three Broomsticks. He's often scowling and unpleasant, but I've never seen him so distraught." She suddenly felt sad.

"That's why I want you to stay away from him. I think what you've done is really important. And you're right, you _should _pursue it. But I don't want Snape involved. If anything happened, it would be on my head, because I was _merciful_." He said the word contemptuously. Then, suddenly, he was embracing her legs, shaking slightly. Was he crying? "I'm sorry, Hermione. I can tell I've upset you. I think I know how you feel. No matter how nasty he was, I wanted to believe in his goodness. I wanted to believe someone could change. I'm sure he _had_ changed… Maybe just not enough." He rested his chin lightly on her right knee. She could just make out his features. "Are you mad at me for telling you?"

"No. I'm glad. I'm glad I know the truth. Of course, your secret is safe with me." She reached out and pushed his hair from his eyes. It was hard to tell in the candlelight whether there were tears in them to match her own.

pp

The next morning as she cleaned and dressed and made her way to the infirmary, Hermione considered all that Harry had told her. It certainly explained Snape's behavior; Harry's presence must be a constant reminder of his own deepest failings. She had to feel a little sorry for him. It couldn't be easy to possess such knowledge one's self. Surely her presence was, by association, almost as disturbing to him as Harry's. In school, he had always seemed to consider her Harry Potter's sidekick (if he considered her at all); why should he have changed his opinion?

Yet she couldn't bring herself to believe that he hoped to use her talents for some nefarious purpose. If that were true, why would he deny her wish to continue researching it? Wouldn't he want to cultivate her? And what kind of nefarious purpose could there be to a healing skill that seemed purely good?

Harry was just being cautious. Seeing someone you trust bow to the Dark Lord would do that to a person. Well, she would consider herself warned. She certainly would be wary of Snape. It was one thing to make a mistake in one's youth; it was quite another to make the same mistake as a grown man. Again, she felt a wave of profound sadness sweep over her. Perhaps, in spite of his offensive personality, she had rather admired him.

As Hermione began to set up the infirmary for the day, other thoughts began to occupy her – for example, the kiss that she and Harry had shared before he had left her for the night. True, it had been but a sweet, rather cautious and short-lived exploration. Somehow, after their conversation about Snape and Voldemort, neither had felt up for anything else. But it might promise other things to come. One could hope.

pp

"So he kissed you?" Parvati asked the next night as they walked the grounds.

"Yes. That's all though. He says he wants to take things slowly."

Parvati giggled. "He _has _changed."

"Don't remind me," Hermione said. "I'm well aware that seventh year he shagged almost every girl in Gryffindor except me." She eyed her friend knowingly.

Parvati blushed, but recovered admirably. "So, is this for real?"

"I don't know. I'm trying not to think about it. I would never have considered the old Harry in that way again. But this Harry is different. I feel closer to him after the past few days than I ever did in school. He really listens. About my work, about my parents, about my experiences in the war. He's surprisingly humble, too, considering he defeated the world's most powerful wizard."

"I'm happy for you, Hermione," said Parvati.

Hermione sensed something behind her voice. "How's Bill?"

"He's – he's the most wonderful man I've ever met. Kind, good-natured."

"And he's handsome, too, which a young man should be if he possibly can help it. I approve, of course. I hope you are making your preferences quite clear."

"I'm not sure what he could see in me," Parvati said softly. "There's nothing _remarkable_ about me, you know. I'm not like you."

She threw an arm around her friend's shoulder, squeezing her affectionately. "Parvati, you are beautiful and bright – and, without a doubt, the kindest person I've ever known. _And_ you're able to tolerate me. Do you know you're the only female friend my own age that I've ever had? Forget defeating Voldemort – _that's_ a real accomplishment." Hermione squinted at the castle door ahead as it released a dark figure into the night. "Snape. So he's not rotting in the dungeon, after all. I was beginning to wonder." Beside her, she heard Pavarti's sharp intake of breath.

As they approached one another, Snape nodded to each in turn. "Good evening, Miss Patil, Miss Granger. It appears you've been granted temporary release from your duties in the Harry Potter Adoration Society."

"Harry's run to London for a few days, Professor," said Parvati flatly. Hermione squeezed her friend's shoulder again. Sarcasm directed at Parvati was an ineffectual weapon – she was wholly without a sense of irony.

Hermione, however, was not. "So you consider yourself qualified to pass judgment on the objects of another's adulation, Professor. One could do worse than adore a war hero, don't you agree?"

Though his face was hidden in shadow, she could sense his body tensing. "If that war hero is Potter, I certainly do not." He seemed about to say more, but thought better of it. "I hope your walk was pleasant. I shall not detain you further." He strode past them into the woods.

"Well. Someone woke up on the wrong side of his coffin this morning." Hermione began to walk into the castle, but her friend stayed still, her face in her hands. She was shaking. "Parvati! My God, what is it?"

"Oh, Hermione! You know, don't you? About Professor Snape! Oh, it's so awful." She fell into Hermione's arms, sobbing. "I – Harry told me, because – because of my dad. He was frightened for me. I just – I can't believe it!"

She felt Parvati's sorrow sweep over her almost as if it were her own; her eyes filled with tears. She held her tightly. "Shhhh," she said. "I know." Even without the bond between them, she would have known. Parvati's father had turned to Voldemort, too, in the final days of the war. Parvati never talked about it, but it must haunt her. How could it not? And Hermione was an expert on grief – its unexpected descent, its absurd triggers. "Shhh," she whispered. "I know." It was a long moment before they entered the castle. A good distance from them, a figure that had been observing them from the shadows unnoticed stalked off into the woods.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Dear Hermione,

Sorry I'm not back at Hogwarts yet. I've still some loose ends to tie up in London. I'll be back in time for the Halloween Ball, don't worry. Can't wait to see you. Save me a dance?

Love, Harry

She fed Hedwig a biscuit, fingering the parchment absently. Since the night of their kiss, she had not seen Harry. He'd left for London abruptly the next morning. Hagrid had relayed the message. "It was sudden business, Harry said. Seemed urgent."

She tried to quell her disappointment. It was only three days until the ball, after all. She'd lived just fine without Harry for the past two years; what was a few days? It was also true that he had disrupted her routine, a routine she had grown rather fond of. As she said the password to enter Minerva's office, she realized she had not spoken with her friend for over a week.

They sipped their tea in a companionable silence; Hermione felt a piece of herself snap firmly back into place.

"I've missed you, dear," Minerva finally said.

"I've missed you, too. I'm sorry. I've been a bit busy."

"With Mr. Potter?"

"Yes."

"Well," she said warmly, "it's about time that boy noticed what was right under his nose. I suppose you can tell me now how our young hero is occupying himself?"

Hermione thought about it. "He said he was resting on his laurels."

"He's earned a bit of a rest, don't you agree? He's been carrying quite a weight for years now."

"He did say he wanted to get a job at the Ministry, but it didn't work out."

Minerva raised her eyebrow. "That's surprising. You know, Severus' brother is quite engaged with the Ministry. Perhaps Severus could ask him to…"

"Professor Snape has a _brother_?" said Hermione.

"Though all evidence may suggest otherwise, Severus did not merely sprout fully formed from the dungeon floor. He has a family. Anyway," she paused for a second, "recent information convinces me that Severus _owes_ Harry even more than I previously thought."

Hermione met Minerva's shrewd glance. "Harry told you about Snape and Voldemort."

"No. But Hagrid did. He thought that as headmistress I should know. And you know Hagrid. Confidences are not his forte."

Hermione considered this. Beneath her shock at Harry's revelation, she had – it could not be denied – felt flattered that he had chosen to disclose his secret to her alone. It had redressed another old grievance: the fact of her being the perpetual outsider of their school threesome. That he had told Parvati as well had been a blow, but _Hagrid_? Out loud she said, "Harry was quiet about it for two years. Why is he suddenly talking?"

"I've wondered that myself. Perhaps he suspects something is afoot." She sipped her tea, frowning. "I must confess, the whole matter has rather shaken me. It is no secret that there is little love between Severus and me, but I never would have thought…" she trailed off.

"Harry seemed to feel the same – he could barely talk about it."

"I doubt any Gryffindor could comprehend such behavior." Her face was grimly set but her voice shook with emotion.

"What are you going to do? You won't – dismiss him or anything?"

"Oh no. He is better kept close; and he is still useful to us. I also believe he returned from Haiti somewhat steadied. But I shall not trust him again. It took me years after he turned from Voldemort the first time to trust him – and that was only with Albus' urgings."

"Perhaps with Voldemort gone we needn't worry any more. I mean, perhaps none of us shall ever be so tested again."

"I hope for that, of course. But I meant what I said at the beginning of term. There are still pockets of dark magic out there, festering. Voldemort was not the ultimate evil, you know. Just its latest incarnation. No, we must be watchful, and vigilant."

Hermione felt a dull chill. "I'm not sure I'm up to it."

"My dear, I worry about many things, but that is not one of them."

pp

Hermione had been planning to wear her school robes to the Halloween Ball, but Parvati insisted on dressing her in one of her gowns, a floor length silk sheath of burnt orange. "It never quite suited my coloring, but it will look perfect on you." At Hermione's protests, she said, "Please? Let me do this for you." How could Hermione say no?

Though she could never compete with the dazzling figure cut by Parvati in basic black, she had to admit that this orange perfectly suited her. In the mirror, her brown eyes seemed hazel, her skin tone richer, her hair almost bronze. "Harry won't stand a chance," Parvati whispered before they entered the Great Hall. Hermione smiled. She supposed the dress couldn't hurt.

But Harry was nowhere to be found. She scanned the hall several times. Well, it was early yet. Parvati squeezed her arm. She must have noticed his absence, too.

Suddenly Bill Weasley was walking toward them. "You both look incredible." He gallantly kissed their hands in turn. "I'm speechless."

"Somehow, I find that hard to believe," said Hermione, smiling.

"Well, I _might_ find the words to ask for a dance? Would either of you care to?"

"Hermione is an excellent dancer –" Parvati said.

Hermione smiled at her. _She doesn't want to leave me alone and pining_. "You go, Parvati. I'm not much up for dancing just now."

"No need to fight over me," Bill laughed, though Hermione thought she detected a bit of hurt in his voice. Parvati patted Hermione's shoulder, then, smiling shyly at Bill, held out her hand to him. Hermione watched Bill lead her friend onto the dance floor, joining the young wizards and witches who danced singly or in couples with youthful abandon. Had she ever been that young? _No need to get maudlin_, she scolded herself. _Where are you, Harry? I need some distraction._

"Miss Granger," said a voice behind her, and she jumped.

"Professor Snape!"

"Might I engage you for the next dance?"

Hermione, so stunned she could not think of a proper refusal, found herself replying, "If you wish."-

"Very well." He turned abruptly and strode away from her, leaving her blinking in astonishment. What was that all about? Had she dreamt it? But sure enough, he returned as the previous song was ending, and held out his hand to her. She somehow managed to grasp it, avoiding his eyes. She felt, rather than saw, Parvati's concerned look as they made their way to the dance floor. At the far end of the room, she saw Minerva watching them, frowning slightly. _I've buried my parents_, she thought grimly. _Surely I can survive one dance with a two-time ex-Death Eater._

The dance began. Snape held her at a comfortable distance, but she felt acutely the edge of his hand pressed against her shoulder blade, the heat of his other hand where it clasped hers. She thought she felt slightly ill. At least he was a competent dancer. That removed one bit of awkwardness. _Talk_, she thought. _It's the only way you'll survive this_.

"I can't remember ever seeing you dance before, Professor," she said. "Yet you're clearly no novice."

"I do not dance at school functions."

"Then I suppose I must wonder to what I owe this honor."

"You are ignorant of your charms, Miss Granger," he said, an edge of mockery in his voice.

She laughed. "Perhaps I should borrow Parvati's clothes more often."

He made no reply, and they slipped into what seemed an interminable silence. _Who needs a time turner?_ she thought. _If I ever want time to move backward, I'll just dance with Snape. _"I believe it is your turn, Professor, to open a topic of conversation."

"Do you, by rule, converse while dancing, then?"

"It depends," she replied. She spied Bill and Parvati dancing in what seemed a comfortable silence. "Sometimes it seems necessary." Again, he made no reply. Hermione tried another tack. "To my surprise, Professor, I discovered recently that you possess a brother."

"Hardly an unusual quality, Miss Granger."

"I am an only child myself."

"I am not surprised."

"Do you, by rule, insult your partner while dancing?"

"It depends. Sometimes it seems necessary." Was there a trace of humor in his voice? She dared for a moment to look up at him. Their eyes met. His face was inscrutable, as always.

"My charms must be weak indeed if this is one of those instances."

He did not contradict her. He did not say anything at all. _Insufferable man!_ She was compelled to pull out her trump card. "It will relieve you to know that, as I am expecting my dancing partner to arrive shortly, there will be no need to test your tolerance of me further."

She thought she felt him stiffen. "Mr. Potter, I assume." She nodded once. There was another silence, but she knew this was of a different sort, the silence preceding a storm. "You will discover that Mr. Potter comes and goes as it pleases him. It is his singular talent."

"Why shouldn't he? He is a hero – welcome everywhere. I would be the same way."

At that moment, the song ended. He held her hand for a second more. "I sincerely believe, Miss Granger, that you would not." He escorted her from the floor, bowed slightly, and left her staring after him, bewildered.

The evening passed. Hermione danced with Bill several times, discussed fall harvesting with Professor Sprout, and chatted with Hagrid about his newest pet. But Professor Snape avoided her for the rest of the evening, and Harry did not appear.

pp

"Hi," said a quiet voice in the infirmary doorway the following evening.

Hermione looked up from her cleanup ritual. "Harry! You're back." She studied him. "You don't look well. Is everything okay?"

"Hermione –" He took a step toward her, then stopped. He averted his eyes.

Instantly she knew. "You're leaving again."

"Yes." He did look at her then. She saw pain and – was it fear? – in his eyes. "I'm going to be leaving the country for a while. I can't tell you why. You're just going to have to trust me."

"For how long?"

"I don't know. A year? Maybe longer."

"Harry, if you're in trouble, for God's sake, tell me."

"It's not – there's nothing to be done. That is, there's nothing for you to do. And I'll be fine. I just wanted to say goodbye. And say I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Sorry I acted like we had all the time in the world." Suddenly, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

Hermione responded for a moment, then broke away, confused. "I don't know what you want from me."

He laughed, bitterly. "That makes two of us." He bent to kiss her again, but chastely this time. "I have to go now."

"All right. You know where to find me."

He stood still for another moment. "Hermione? Don't wait for me."

She closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds and felt – why she did not know – an echo of the power that had surged in her fingertips when she had healed Parvati. "I won't." Her gaze was steady, her eyes dry. "But be careful."

For a moment, Harry looked discomposed by her response. Then he nodded, and left.

pp

"You are upset."

"I am worried about him, Minerva."

"What about you?"

"I find myself – unaffected." Hermione tried not to flinch under Minerva's searching gaze. "I know. It surprises even me. Am I that cold?"

"I have little use for that term. You are careful with your heart."

"I think I felt gratified by his attentions. Vindicated. Is that so wrong?"

"Do you feel it is wrong?"

Hermione laughed. "Should you ever tire of wizardry, you ought to consider being a therapist for Muggles."

Unknowingly supporting Hermione's point, Minerva did not respond to this diversion.

Hermione poured herself more tea, then milk. She stirred, slowly. "I think there are only two things I trust. You, and my power to heal."

Minerva nodded at the compliment, but looked concerned. "Parvati?"

"Sometimes I think my feelings toward Parvati are indistinguishable from my powers to heal." She stared at her tea. "Maybe Snape was right."

"That you are incapable of simple affection? Perhaps. But maybe what you have with Parvati is not so simple."

"It's not. I can _feel _her grief sometimes. I wouldn't be surprised if she can feel mine. Ever since I healed her, we are connected; yet there is a gulf between us."

"There is a gulf between Parvati and everyone, including Mr. Weasley. Surely you've noticed."

Hermione had not, in fact, noticed.

"Well. I stray from our topic: the enigmatic Mr. Potter. When I think of your past escapades with Harry and Ron, I find I forgive you for wanting to trust only in yourself for a while."

"And in you, Minerva."

"I may not forgive you for that," she said gently, her eyes twinkling.

pp

Dear Ron,

It's been a while since my last letter. You have been more faithful. Though I haven't properly thanked you, I hope you know that your letters have been a tremendous support to me. I'm rather sure you do.

I must now admit that I have another motive for writing you. I'm worried about Harry. When I last saw him, he informed me he needed to leave the country, and would not tell me why. He looked positively shaken. He assured me he would be fine, but I am concerned nonetheless. Do you know anything? Harry wouldn't even tell me what he's been doing for the past two years. Do you know? Any little thing might help.

Please continue to keep me abreast of your adventures in Romania with Charlie.

Love, Hermione

Hermione read over the letter. It was never easy to resume a failed correspondence. Ron was a man of action – like Bill – but he could be surprisingly sensitive at times. For the past two years, she had kept her world narrow. She hoped Ron would understand that.

That night, she walked the grounds with Parvati in silence; her conversation with Minerva had disquieted her. After they had walked a ways, Parvati grabbed her hand. "We don't even need to talk, do we?"

"No. I don't know."

It was a cold night – November, now. Hermione could see her and Parvati's breath by the light of the half moon. Leaves crackled underfoot. As they neared the entrance of Hogwarts, Parvati squeezed Hermione's hand. "You're worried about Harry."

Hermione stopped. "Yes. I wrote Ron earlier this evening."

"Bill thinks that Ron and Harry have had a falling out."

Hermione dropped Parvati's hand and hugged herself, suddenly chilled. "You know, Harry didn't bring him up once. But then again, neither did I. I was just so enamored with his attention, with being the one he took into his confidence for a change. Selfish, really. What happened between them?"

"Bill didn't volunteer details."

"And you didn't ask, I'm sure."

Parvati sighed, turning to face Hermione. "I'm just so – tongue-tied around him."

"Love does that, I'm told."

"I wish I _could _talk to him, though. Like I talk to you."

Hermione laughed. "Weren't you the one that said we don't need to talk?"

Hermione could feel her friend's exasperation. "I _can_ talk to you precisely because I don't _have _to. I know you know what I mean."

"Of course. I'm sorry."

"It is the same for you, isn't it?"

"Yes. Maybe. What do you mean?"

"Let's not talk. I like walking with you in silence."

"All right."

They walked into Hogwarts.

---

From P&P:

"It is _your _turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy." …

…"Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?"

"Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Bill Weasley stared at the pile of scrolls on his desk. His left hand was covered with red ink. How did Snape do it? All that marking of student work, and never a smudge on his person. Well. Potion masters were men of precision. Bill Weasley was a Man of Action. So Hermione had said, and Hermione, as everyone including herself knew, was always right. The Man of Action blinked, confounded by the absurdity of a day spent behind a desk marking scrolls. He glanced out the window. The grounds looked lovely, anyway.

"Hard at work again?" said a voice.

Bill looked toward the open doorway of his office. "As you see." He held up his stained hand. "How do you keep your hands so immaculate? You do more marking than I do."

"Ah, Weasley. I cannot divulge all my secrets."

Bill sighed. "Let me guess. You are also all caught up with your work."

"Of course. It is all a matter of method."

"You potion masters and your methods. I suppose you are here as usual to exploit my procrastinating tendencies."

"I am bound for Hogsmeade. I might tolerate your company."

"I'll get my things."

It baffled everyone, this friendship (the term was unavoidable) between the sunny-tempered Bill Weasley and his surly former professor. Both men secretly enjoyed this bafflement – which itself suggested a certain kinship of spirit beneath their opposing demeanors.

Bill was cheerful by nature – it could not be helped. But one did not become a curse breaker, did not teach Defense against the Dark Arts, without feeling some attraction for the less savory aspects of magic. One time, when beholding the elegance of a Brahayan curse in a remote mountain site in Thailand, Bill had wept out of sheer admiration. There was a fine line between breaking curses and casting them, between defending against the Dark Arts and engaging in them.

Bill never talked with Snape about his Death Eater past; one did not. But he could not deny that he found this past, in a way that few would understand, comforting. To behold the darkness and choose light: Bill's existence comprised just that. Who could understand him if not the dark man striding briskly at his side?

"Have you errands as well, Weasley?"

"Nothing aside from drinking Firewhiskey at the Three Broomsticks."

"I will join you. But first I must check on some chameleon skins I ordered. Their quality has been less than satisfactory of late. If this persists, I may need to resort to – intimidation." He curved his lips into a tight-lipped and rather terrifying sneer. It was at odds with a certain – one dare not call it a twinkle – glint of humor in his eyes.

Bill grinned. "Enjoy – but not too much."

Soon after, Bill had found a secluded table in the corner of the tavern and ordered a drink. When it arrived, he took one long draught. That was better. It was a fine whiskey, burning pleasantly down his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, and thought of Parvati.

It could not be helped.

Bill had seen the world, and as a Man of Action, he had tasted its riches in all the ways that might be expected of a man with his youth and charm. Parvati was stunningly beautiful, it was true. But he was no stranger to beauty. Why he was so smitten, he could not say. When he attempted to articulate it, reluctance to fall into the usual clichés checked his path. Was he attracted by her purity? How Medieval. Her allure? Yes, well. The combination of the two, no doubt – the way she promised everything and offered nothing at the same time in a single shy look.

He scanned the room, looking for distractions, and was struck by two small, dark figures huddled over a table, cloaks pulled up to their ears. Goblins. As if working at Gringott's hadn't ensured he'd seen enough of those to last him a lifetime. What were they doing here? Goblins were a secretive lot, avoiding public places that were open to more than their own kind.

In unison, they turned to look at him. Bill nodded at them in greeting – let it not be said that a son of Molly Weasley would ever be rude.

The one on the left looked familiar to him. Before he could place the face, the goblins had Blinked into the two empty chairs at his table. Blinking was a parlor trick, a mere remnant of goblin powers from a bygone era. But it always unnerved him.

"William Weasley," said the goblin he had recognized.

Bill studied him. "Stricknaught," he said at last.

"I am called Silvermidge now."

"Ah." Damn annoying how those goblins were always changing names. At least he knew now that he was not the only one who had changed occupations since their acquaintance in Cairo.

"My companion is called Trowel."

"A pleasure," said Bill. He waved over the closest waiter. "Another round, please."

Moments later, Bill silently sipped his drink. He was no stranger to goblin etiquette. He dare not question the goblins on their business until they had taken full advantage of his hospitality. He watched their long fingers – longer than his, though the goblins themselves were half his size – close delicately around their mugs. There was a certain elegance to their movements that was completely at odds with their shriveled, unwholesome appearance.

Trowel was the first to speak. "He does not know why we are here, brother." Although it was considered a bit old-fashioned these days, all goblins might refer to one another as brother.

"Does he not?" said Silvermidge, eying Bill closely under his bushy brows. Finally, the goblin said, "There has been an acquisition."

Bill waited patiently for him to continue. One did not rush goblins.

"Machu Picchu. It is ours at last," said Silvermidge.

Willing his face to remain neutral, Bill nodded once and said evenly, "May the ancestors bless you with wealth."

"May the ancestors bless _you_, William Weasley," said Trowel, his small mouth twisting into the slightest of smiles.

pp

Severus Snape arrived at The Three Broomsticks just in time to witness two small figures rise from Bill Weasley's table and take their leave of him. Bill stared blankly at the glass in front of him.

Snape walked to the table and sat down. After a moment of his presence being hardly marked, he said, "It relieves me I shall have such an easy act to follow. No doubt even I can best goblins as a conversationalist."

Bill laughed weakly. "So you noticed them."

"Difficult not to, in spite of their statures."

"They want me back."

"Of course. But that is not a new development."

Bill looked at him, his cheeks flushed with agitation and a kind of raw excitement.

"Ah," said Snape. "Am I right to presume this visit is in regard to their recent acquisition of Machu Picchu?"

Bill looked stunned for a moment. "How ever did you know?"

"The whole wizarding world knows, Weasley. It's been on the front page of the Daily Prophet for a week now. Your ignorance results from the fact that you divide your time between daydreaming over stacks of scrolls and mooning over Miss Patil." Bill turned his eyes downward. Snape sighed. "What were the terms of their offer?"

Bill shook his head in disbelief. "What am I going to do?"

pp

Hermione rarely received mail, and she had only herself to blame. She had never had many friends; and she had let virtually all her acquaintances slip away in the years after the war. Thus she was stunned when one day in early December, while sitting at the head table with her colleagues, she was the recipient of three separate letters. The first one she instantly recognized – it had Ron's unmistakable seal. She could not place the other two. She opened Ron's first.

Dear Hermione,

I hope _you_ know you can write me however much (or little) you want. I will continue to be your faithful admirer regardless.

In answer to your inquiry, I'm afraid I know little more than you do. Let's just say Harry makes your rather lax correspondence seem like stalking by comparison.

I did see Harry at Ginny and Neville's wedding last spring. He told me that he'd been living in Gilderoy Lockhart fashion – off of book-signings and adoring women. I thought it was a joke at the time, but now I'm not so sure.

Except he doesn't have a book, does he? But his date certainly seemed adoring.

Mum is coming out to visit at Christmas. I can't wait, and Charlie is beset with nerves. It's always more complicated for the oldest child, isn't it? Not that you would know!

Yours,

Ron

The letter did not answer any questions about Harry – but it raised one. Her stomach had clenched in jealousy at the mention of Harry's adoring date of almost a year ago. How was it that she was unfazed by his abrupt departure some weeks ago, yet flinched at the mention of his date to a wedding? She would never understand the workings of her heart!

With that depressing thought, she opened the next letter.

Dear Miss Granger,

It would be an honor to work with you in my potions laboratory this summer. Severus Snape speaks highly of you. Please consider to stay with my daughter and me. We have a bedroom for students especially. I will expect you at the end of April.

Sincerely,

Master Bertrand

pp

She could not help it. She looked across the table at Snape, her expression, no doubt, triumphant. She saw his glance drift to the seal on Master Bertrand's letter. He seemed to pale. Then, abruptly, he excused himself from the table and strode from the Great Hall.

The future suddenly became a tangible thing, hovering in front of her like a tantalizing golden bauble she need only pluck from the air. Perhaps her ambition had not died with the war. Perhaps it had only been slumbering. She grinned. She couldn't help it.

Hermione waited until she was in her chambers to open the final letter.

Dear Hermione,

Knowing you, the holidays are probably the last thing on your mind. But Neville and I would love to have you spend them with us. Neville is quite busy at the Ministry, and I need a playmate to help me unwind from another grueling University term.

Please say you'll come. Of course, you're not imposing. And no, I'm not asking out of pity. And no, Ron isn't putting me up to it.

You see, I much prefer actual conversations with you to the ones I imagine.

All my love,

Ginny

And now she had plans for the holidays as well. Things were looking up indeed.

pp

The last weeks of the term passed without much event. When she wasn't in the infirmary, Hermione spent her time at tea with Minerva, walking with Parvati, or in the library, huddled over references, searching for any reference to Haitian potionry.

Hermione had just finished packing her trunk when Parvati appeared, looking a bit shaken.

"What is it?"

"Bill's leaving. He's going back to Gringott's."

"He's _what_? Is it possible?"

Parvati nodded. "I talked to the Headmistress."

"And?"

"She just said it was true – and began muttering about Albus being 'a damned fool.' "

"I can't believe this. He's in love with you!"

Parvati blinked back a few tears, but her voice was steady. "I tried to tell you, Hermione. He's kind-hearted and generous – toward everyone, even me. Nothing ever – happened between us. He sometimes held my hand, that's all. I'm not upset, really. Not too upset. I'm just glad to know there's someone like him out there – someone so _good_. It's enough."

"He'll come to his senses. I'm sure of it."

"I think I'd rather not talk about him. I'd rather not. I think I'm going to be okay."

"Do you want to come with me to Ginny and Neville's?"

Pavarti was silent for a moment. Then, "My mum needs me. Holidays, you know. They're still pretty rough."

"Write to me?"

"Of course." They embraced quickly, and Parvati walked with Hermione off the grounds, where she Disapparated.

pp

Neville Longbottom was a born bureaucrat. There was just something about leather-upholstered swivel chairs, the smell of good ink, and – that Holy Grail of wizarding bureaucrats everywhere – the perfectly-cut quill. He filled his days with discrete tasks involving parchment, owls, and elegant, methodical procedures, the specter of a completed to-do list eternally luring with its siren call.

It so happened he was also a born husband. On occasion, he had heard other men refer to themselves as doting on their wives. He let it pass without comment. But he knew full well that they were merely weak approximations of the Platonic doter, the embodiment of ultimate dotage, himself, Neville Longbottom, Assistant to the Assistant Minister.

Ginny Weasley now Longbottom, an only daughter, the youngest of seven, knew good doting when she saw it, for she was a born dotee. True, she had once temporarily slipped, fallen prey to a girlish crush on an unattainable love object known as The Boy Who Lived. When in her sixth year she had actually held said love object in the palm of her hand (in more ways than one), she had seen him for what he was: inconstant, distractible, and a tad vain. Ginny would not be his Girl of the Month.

Thus it happened that what had seemed a rebound relationship with the smitten Neville eventually progressed into a very happy state of affairs for both parties. With his modest inheritance and secure employment, Neville made Ginny uniquely free. She pursued her Transfiguration studies with abandon, fueled by cups of tea hand-delivered by Neville, expert massages (he'd taken a class), and drawn, perfumed baths. And whenever she needed her tension relieved in more unspeakable ways, Neville was most obliging. It was a Perfect Match.

Into this domestic bliss Hermione Apparated one winter day, trunk in hand. Ginny and Neville lived in a respectable London flat with a generous flue. After growing up in a small house full of clutter and mayhem, Ginny reveled in space and order. Had she been a Muggle, surely her décor would have been contemporary modern, sleek-lined and sparse. As she was a witch, merely avoiding all things Victorian seemed a delicious rebellion.

"Hello!" Hermione called and Ginny appeared. The two old friends embraced with sincere affection.

"You're just in time," Ginny said.

"I am?"

"Ministry event. Seven o'clock."

Hermione groaned. "Ginny! For God's sake, I just got here."

"Well, I must attend. I _am _the wife of the Assistant to the Assistant Minister," she said, with mock haughtiness. "And you know how Neville picks his battles. Or should I say, he's picked _one _battle: that I grace his arm at Ministry events. And it therefore falls upon you, as my esteemed houseguest, to grace mine."

"I don't suppose it would deter you if I said I had nothing to wear?"

"Your outfit is hanging up in the guest room. I'm not getting an advanced degree in Transfiguration for nothing, you know. Oh, stop pouting. You know you'll cave in sooner or later, why not sooner? Let's get on with it, shall we?"

"I hope you're aware that Neville's spoiling you beyond recognition."

Ginny sighed, dreamily. "Believe me, I am."

pp

The Ministry event in question was hosted by one Cornelius Fudge. This permanent fixture of the wizarding world possessed one extraordinary talent and one extraordinary interest. Most conveniently, these were the same: ensuring his own survival. Though Longbottom was clearly his inferior, he deigned to invite him to his holiday soiree for three reasons: firstly, attendants always nicely accentuate one's rank; secondly, Longbottom's encyclopedic knowledge of Ministry workings, tactfully inserted at the right moment, occasionally saved him from embarrassment; and thirdly, Longbottom's wife was a pretty, charming sort of girl who added a bit of needed atmosphere. True, she was a part of that upstart Weasley brood, but Fudge chose to believe her thoroughly Longbottomized. When people were a threat to Fudge, he made it his business to understand them well. Ginny was no threat, thus he deliberately misunderstood her. Let it not be said that Cornelius Fudge did not know how to be happy.

She appeared that evening with an unknown woman, who, though not as pretty as Ginny perhaps, possessed an excellent frame and fine, intelligent eyes. She, like Ginny, was tastefully attired, if not as much at ease.

"Ah, Mrs. Longbottom," Cornelius cried out, quickly stepping to her side.

"Minister, a pleasure as always," said Ginny graciously. "May I introduce my friend Hermione Granger?"

Cornelius seemed a bit shocked for a moment, but recovered. "Miss Granger. Of course. But it has been some time."

"Yes, Minister," said Hermione deliberately. "It has."

"Well, how delightful," Fudge said. "And how are you getting on? I've not forgiven you for turning down a Ministry job, you know."

"You never offered one," she said.

"Oh! Well. You did always speak your mind, didn't you. At any rate, I'm sure it was an oversight."

"I believe," Neville's voice said behind them, "Hermione had already apprenticed herself to Madame Pomfrey before we could make her an offer."

"Ah! Longbottom. Yes, I was just about to say as much. Now you'll excuse me while I attend to some new arrivals."

"Of course, Minister." Once Fudge had left them, Neville greeted Ginny with a quick kiss and whispered something in her ear that made her blush. Then he turned his attentions to Hermione, grabbing her hands warmly. "I see Ginny convinced you to come. It is my fault. I told her I didn't think you would be up for it. Of course, that made her only more determined. She _can _be very persuasive." He looked affectionately at Ginny.

Hermione wondered suddenly if she was in for a long three weeks. "How are things at the Ministry, then?"

As Neville launched into a description of his current projects, Hermione's mind wandered and she found herself glancing around at the guests in Fudge's elegant room. Ministry types, all of them – all except one. She gasped slightly as she saw a familiar figure dressed in elegant black robes, his profile angular and foreboding. "Professor Snape?" she whispered.

Neville followed her puzzled gaze, just as the figure in question turned toward them; once out of profile, the angularity of his features vanished like a mirage. The dark stranger met her eyes and nodded in a not unfriendly greeting. He then turned back to his conversation. Neville said, "That is _Augustus _Snape. Snape's brother."

_Of course_, thought Hermione. She pulled her gaze from him with some effort.

"He's not a bad fellow, really. It's not his fault Snape's his brother, after all," Neville was saying. "He's very engaged in the Ministry. Fudge often consults him."

"Mmmm," Hermione said, unable to resist looking at Augustus Snape again. He seemed to feel her eyes on him, and turned to meet them. He held up his glass to her this time and smiled, at which point she could discern not a single similarity between him and his brother.

Later that evening, Hermione was engaged in a good-natured debate with a young man about the Department of Muggle Affairs. Just as she was getting the upper hand, she felt a presence at her left side. "Snape," said the young man in greeting.

"Whitworth," said Augustus Snape, his voice similar to his brother's in tone, if not as resonant.

"This is Miss Hermione Granger."

He smiled. "Miss Granger. I have heard much about you."

Hermione balked at this. "I believe you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Snape. I confess I know very little of you."

"Am I right to presume that Severus has been resisting his urge to brag about his younger brother?"

Something pleasing in his manner made Hermione feel at ease. "I did hear of your existence from a third party. When I asked the professor about it, he would only say that having a brother was 'nothing unusual.'"

Augustus laughed heartily. "Of course. How like him. So, tell me, is life at Hogwarts progressing to your satisfaction? I am told you are a Healer."

"An _apprentice_ as yet," Hermione said. Augustus nodded neutrally. Yes, very unlike Snape. "I will be finished at the end of next term."

"Congratulations in advance."

At this point, Richard Whitworth seized the opportunity to excuse himself from a conversation that obviously excluded him. Now that they were alone, Hermione was seized by a desire to test her new acquaintance. "I plan after I am done to attend Muggle medical school. I have already submitted my applications."

Augustus raised an eyebrow. "Miss Granger, I will not pass judgment on your decision, of course. But if you do not mind a bit of brotherly advice, you might be careful to whom you disclose that intention, at least in certain circles."

She studied him. "I thought I was being careful."

"I will accept that as a compliment. Tell me, how will you amuse yourself while in London?"

As they discussed potential itineraries for her stay, Hermione couldn't help but wonder that this affable man could be at all related to the taciturn recluse who dwelt in the dungeons of Hogwarts. It also shocked her that, however much his older brother seemed to deny his existence, Augustus spoke of the professor with something very much like affection.

Before they parted company, Augustus said, "I would be honored, Miss Granger, to escort you on one of your adventures in the weeks to come. Are you available Thursday afternoon?"

"That would be – lovely."

"I shall owl you details. Good evening." He turned from her and strode away; in his abrupt departure, he suddenly reminded Hermione very much indeed of his older brother.

pp


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The week passed. In Ginny's company, which was lively as ever, Hermione toured London. She had not been there since the war; that the bustle and noise were unchanged unnerved her somehow. It was as if the war had never happened. She missed the quiet of Hogwarts and the singleness of mind that her work afforded her. Yet, for all that, the freedom of being on holiday pleased her.

On Tuesday, she received an owl from Augustus.

Dear Miss Granger,

I hope it still pleases you to spend Thursday in my company. I shall be awaiting you outside the Ministry Building at two o'clock.

Sincerely, Augustus Snape

When she arrived, he was standing at the top of the white marble steps, leaning against a pillar. He smiled as she ascended toward him. "Miss Granger. What a pleasure to see you! I hope you are in the mood for walking?"

"Always," Hermione replied.

"Well then," he said.

She had just taken his offered arm when a female voice called out, "Augustus Snape!" Hermione looked toward the voice. It belonged to a woman, attractive and vaguely familiar. She was making her way up the marble steps toward them.

"Caroline," said Augustus. Hermione felt his arm stiffen slightly in hers, but his voice betrayed nothing. Must be a family talent, thought Hermione. "This is Miss Hermione Granger. Miss Granger, this is Caroline Fudge." Hermione placed her then: Cornelius Fudge's daughter, the one Augustus had been talking with at the holiday party when he had raised his glass to Hermione from across the room.

Caroline Fudge looked at her with what might have been contempt if it weren't overshadowed by boredom. "A pleasure, I'm sure," she said, bestowing a brief nod on Hermione.

"The pleasure is mine," said Hermione, though she wasn't so sure.

"Do tell me, Augustus, whether your brother will be in town for the holidays."

"You toy with me, Caroline. You know quite well that Severus always spends a portion of his holiday in London."

Caroline blinked innocently. "Toy with you, Augustus? I'd far sooner toy with Tamarine."

"My familiar," Augustus said to Hermione. Then, "Miss Granger works with Severus at Hogwarts."

Caroline looked at Hermione again, obviously rethinking her initial impression. "How uncharacteristically rude of you, Augustus! You should call Professor Granger by her title."

"I am not a professor," Hermione explained. "I am an apprentice Healer."

"I see," said Caroline, decisively turning her attentions to Augustus. "Will I have the pleasure of seeing you and your brother at the New Year's Ball?"

"You have for the past ten years. I would be surprised if this year were any different. Except that Miss Granger will be joining us as well."

"How delightful that will be."

"Now we must take our leave, or we shall be late. I will tell Severus you inquired after him. Good day, Caroline."

"Good day, Augustus. Miss – Granger."

Augustus virtually pulled Hermione down the stairs away from Caroline Fudge. "I am sorry about that."

"Sorry about what?"

"Caroline's is a trying presence even for those she believes herself to like. And for those she _dislikes _–"

"Dislikes? She doesn't even know who I am."

"Of course not. But she believes she does." Augustus glanced at her. "Come, Miss Granger. You seem a pragmatic sort. Surely you don't believe that all prejudice died out with the war."

"How would she even know I am Muggleborn?"

"I doubt she does – but she knows you do not belong to any of the old wizarding families, and to her, being a Healer is virtually the same as being in trade. That's right, Miss Granger. A Healer is considered little more than a technician in certain circles. Consider for a moment that it is only barely acceptable for Severus to be a gentleman academic. Even that acceptance is highly strained. But there were – special circumstances in that case."

Hermione longed to ask what those circumstances were. But she did not. She had learned _some _restraint since her student days. Instead, she re-channeled her questioning urge into safer territory. "I wonder two things, Mr. Snape." He raised an eyebrow, betraying, for a moment, an uncanny resemblance to his brother. "Am I really attending the New Year's Ball?"

"I hope you will. I would be honoured to escort you, of course, but it would be improper. Severus will, I'm sure, be delighted to–"

_To escort me off the edge of a cliff_, thought Hermione, shuddering slightly. _Now why would it be improper for the younger brother, and not the older?_

"Miss Granger?"

"Yes?"

"I was asking you what your second question had been."

"Oh. Yes. What are we late for?"

Augustus laughed. "I can only wish that Caroline herself believed me half as well as you do. But she knows my ways better. It is no matter. I am not of real interest to her anyway."

"It didn't seem that way to me."

"Didn't it? If you do attend the ball on Severus' arm, I believe you will see quite clearly where her interests truly lie."

It took Hermione a moment to overcome her shock at the idea of Snape courting, or being courted. Then she wondered aloud, "Doesn't her father hate Sn – Professor Snape?"

"Fudge? The man does not think in terms of hate and love, only of useless and useful. It happens that Severus has a very large fortune. And Fudge's chief objections are largely moot now that Voldemort is dead."

Hermione took all this in, and considered the woman whom they had left in front of the Ministry. Deep inside, a part of herself – of which she was not proud – reveled in unbridled _Schadenfreude_. Caroline Fudge seemed as disagreeable as Snape. She wished the woman luck in her desired conquest; they would be quite miserable together indeed.

Augustus led her eventually to a nondescript side street not too far from the Ministry; he approached an equally nondescript wooden door and rapped twice, murmuring a few words. The door swung open to reveal the most beautiful garden Hermione had ever seen. She let out a gasp. "Am I to assume you have never been to Withershins Garden?" asked Augustus, his voice sounding profoundly pleased. Wordlessly, Hermione shook her head.

It was exquisite – acres of flowerbeds, enchanted fountains, hidden nooks and wild patches of brilliantly colored flowers worthy of serving as the bed of Titania herself. The garden was enchanted in more ways than one: it was far larger than the city block that contained it; the air was warm, as if they were in a greenhouse, but when Hermione looked up she saw nothing but blue skies. Herbology had always been a duty rather than a sincere interest for Hermione. Perhaps if she had visited Withershins as a student, she would have felt differently.

Their stroll was leisurely, and their conversation easy. Augustus spoke of the plants and flowers they encountered with the kind of detailed knowledge and simmering excitement with which his brother might have spoken of potion ingredients. He spied her looking at him with amusement. "Herbology was always my favorite, you know. Just ask Professor Sprout." They rounded a corner of the cobblestone path, the smell of creeping thyme wafting through the air as they crushed it underfoot.

Hermione suddenly heard the strains of music. "Ah. A wedding. Not unusual for Withershins, especially around the holidays. Just walk briskly by, that is the etiquette." The music grew louder. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw a small crowd gathered in a circle. Many were wearing wreaths of flowers and dressed in ornate robes. It was all she could do not to turn and stare: she had never been to a Magical wedding, after all. The closest she had come was receiving an invitation to Neville and Ginny's wedding, which she had been too lost in mourning to attend. As the music began to recede behind them, Augustus sighed next to her, jolting her from her thoughts. "My wedding will be here. It is not too many months away now."

Hermione attempted not to balk, and failed. "You are engaged?"

"I am thirty-two. I will be married on my thirtieth-third birthday, of course. A match was determined for me at my birth. You did know that many of the old wizarding families still arrange marriages for their children."

"No," said Hermione. "No, I didn't." She felt for a moment deflated, but it passed quickly. Besides, the idea of having Severus Snape as a brother-in-law was a formidable obstacle to romantic feelings toward Augustus, no matter how charming he was.

"My intended is French, from a family even older than ours. I have met her a few times. I trust she will make an adequate wife." There might be a twinge of regret beneath his voice, but overall, he seemed rather cheerfully resigned to his fate. How could someone seem so familiar one minute, and so utterly alien the next? Would Hermione ever understand this archaic world?

Something occurred to her then, and she opened her mouth, but then shut it again.

"Miss Granger, do you wonder why my brother never married?"

Did mind-reading run in the family, too? "Well, he is a bit older than thirty-three."

"He was betrothed at birth as well. But when he joined Voldemort, the woman's family rejected the match outright. Allegiance to Voldemort split up a lot of the old families in those days. Our parents died shortly after, so no other match was decided – not that there weren't many families clamoring for that honor for their daughters. I do wonder sometimes whether Severus joined Voldemort in part to escape his impending marriage – as well as other pressures. It is not easy to be the oldest son. But I do not know, and I do not discuss such things with him. You can imagine he is not very – forthcoming."

"Oh, I can indeed."

He paused to consider a fountain of crossing streams of water that shimmered blue, then gold, then blue again. "Miss Granger, I would not have you think ill of my brother for all that. I know he thinks highly of you. He is not one to do things by halves. He has always been the extreme one. I waffled when Voldemort was rising to power. I am not proud of it, but it is true. Those were difficult times. In some ways, I respect Severus more than myself for choosing, even if he chose wrong. And then, of course, when he realized his error, he was tireless in his attempts to rectify it. What he has gone through under the service of Dumbledore… Well, I am not capable of such heroism." Hermione was silent. For the first time, she was glad that so few knew the truth about Snape, if only to preserve this tender adoration for an older brother. "I did little during Voldemort's second rising to power, Miss Granger. Toward the end, I contributed some money to assist in the battle against him (I do handle the Snape estate), but mostly I ignored the writing on the wall. I guess you could say that my current efforts with the Ministry are my weak attempt at atonement for some grave sins."

"My father always said, 'Woe to the man who did nothing because he could only do a little.'"

"Precisely. I have experienced enough of that woe in my day." He paused at a fork in the path. "Do you like the garden, Miss Granger?"

"It is magnificent," she breathed.

"I am very glad." Too soon they neared a door under the arch of an immense hedge wall. "Should you like to come here again, the door will now recognize you. You need only knock twice and say 'Withershins.'"

All in all, it had been a very pleasant day.

pp

Dear Hermione,

I miss you.

Mum is still a wreck. I do wish she would at least try to put the pieces back together. But I am glad to be here with her. My sister does her best, but she had never been adept at handling emotions. Typical Ravenclaw.

Bill has written me two letters. I am glad he thinks of me sometimes. He is getting acclimated to the altitude in Peru, and studying ancient Inca lore. He had not yet actually explored the site, but will soon.

I confess that it is lonely here. I do not feel much like myself. I find I miss Hogwarts immensely, and our lovely walks on the grounds.

Please write soon.

Love, Parvati

She looked up at Ginny, who was reading a letter herself. Ginny met her glance. "Guess what I have here? An invitation to dinner from Augustus Snape – for this very evening. I may thank you, Hermione, for this offer. Augustus Snape has never invited us to dinner before."

Hermione blushed. "He is engaged, you know. Arranged since his birth."

"Oh, do they still bother with that? How archaic." Ginny sighed. "Well, so much for my theories. Do you still want to go?"

"Of course. I am satisfied to be his friend. His company is quite agreeable."

"Now, if I can only convince my husband to go."

"Why ever would Neville refuse? He seems to live for events these days."

"Yes, but you see, his former potions master will be there as well."

pp

Neville did come along, though with every step nearer the Snapes' door he seemed increasingly less the confident Assistant to the Assistant Minister, and more the shaky Hogwarts student cowering in Potions class.

The terrifying Potions Master himself said little during the meal, and the normally talkative Neville was equally silent. But Augustus' easy manners made dinner quite bearable. Ginny, irrepressible as always, entertained the table with tales of Transfiguration debacles. "It is difficult to imagine an area of study with more opportunity for mishap – disastrous and hilarious," she said.

"Mrs. Longbottom, I believe Potions may be a serious contender for that honor, as some at this table are only too aware." They were the first words, aside from a rather cold greeting, that Severus Snape had uttered since they had arrived.

It was all Neville could do not to spit out his soup. Thinking instantly of a certain Polyjuice incident, Hermione turned a bright shade of red.

Augustus glanced around the table. "Neville, what does the Minister think of Machu Picchu falling back into goblin hands? I have spoken to him of it, but you often have a better grasp on his position."

Neville swallowed his soup, and sat a little straighter, Assistant to the Assistant Minister once more. Hermione gave Augustus a grateful look. "Fudge is unconcerned. If anything, the Peruvian Ministry is often overly conservative in their decision-making."

"It is also in a bit of a financial crisis, if my sources are correct. I have warned the Minister that I am somewhat concerned their desperation for gold might have swayed their judgment."

"It was researched. Machu Picchu has been thoroughly explored for nearly one hundred years now by some of the best experts in the wizarding world. There is nothing left to discover. Fudge believes the goblins are merely sentimental; you know how they revel in the lore of the old days."

"Ah yes, sentimentality and goblins. How often those two ideas go together," said Snape.

Augustus rolled his eyes. "Really, Severus, have you no other mode of discourse besides sarcasm? It is so inefficient."

"Unlike the continuous employ of euphemism and tact for the sake of placating one's guests, you mean," said Snape.

"Dear Brother, remind me to cease encouraging you to come home more often."

"I believe I already do so in every letter."

Augustus looked at his guests apologetically. "Forgive us, my friends. We must compress into too few visits a year's worth of brotherly bickering. It is our little way of assuring each other that we still exist." Snape harrumphed. "At any rate, my brother and I are in accord on this issue, no matter how reluctant he may be to appear so in public. I _am _grateful, Severus, that Bill Weasley is in Peru; I know extracting him from Hogwarts took no undue convincing on your part."

Hermione stared at the potions master. So _that's _why Bill left Hogwarts even though he was in love with Parvati! Leave it to that miserable git to sabotage others' happiness. She stared at her soup, feeling a flush of anger rise to her cheeks; she noticed she was gripping her spoon with a fierce tightness. She felt Snape's eyes on her then and looked up to glare at him. He held her gaze, his face unreadable. That they had not even progressed past the first course of the meal suddenly seemed an oppressive fact.

Somehow Hermione made it through the dinner, but she spoke little. Snape himself relapsed back into silence. Ginny was completely at ease, and Neville, seemingly bolstered by Augustus' attentions, chatted amiably about Ministry politics. Augustus led the conversation with a deft touch. How was it that these two men could come from the same family?

pp

Ginny, despite being on holiday, did have work to do to prepare for the next term, and Hermione could not deny she welcomed some time alone to walk and think. As Augustus had promised, the door of Withershins opened easily in response to two taps and its name. Since her first visit, she had been longing to return.

The garden was stunning – and different from the other day, somehow. She wondered if it weren't like the castle of Hogwarts – an almost sentient entity that would suddenly alter itself for reasons unknown.

She had been walking for some time, barely heeding her direction, when she spied a familiar dark figure in the path ahead walking toward her. "Mr. Snape," she called out cheerfully, but as he neared, it became clear her eyes had deceived her. "Oh. I'm sorry, Professor. The resemblance _is _rather striking."

"So I have been told."

"I am sorry to have intruded on your solitude."

"Not at all. I might say the same thing." He was eying her warily. She took his hint, and began to step by him, continuing on her way. But even as he stepped to the side to give her room to pass, he said, rather stiffly, "Please do walk with me, Miss Granger."

He _had _to pick this moment to acquire some approximation of manners. "I would hate to –"

"Miss Granger, I insist. Do not worry. You may continue in your thoughts as before. Idle chatter is my brother's domain, not mine."

They walked in silence for some time. Finally, Hermione asked, "I've been wondering, Professor."

"A rarity, I'm sure."

She scowled at him, but continued on. "Is the garden always changing?"

"Yes. One might come here every day and never go on the same walk twice."

"Isn't it easy to get lost then?"

"Never. The garden knows when you want to leave."

Hermione thought about this. Odd that the door hadn't presented itself yet. Could it be that the potions master was not, in fact, desperate to escape her company? It was a puzzle. She certainly did not want to leave, no matter how irritating her companion. She felt she could walk in the garden forever.

They made their way down a stone path that wound along a brook. Eventually, the brook emptied into a small pond that was covered with blooming water lilies. Tiny blue dragonflies skimmed its surface. Before she thought to censor herself, Hermione cried out, "This is perfect! I do love water lilies. And dragonflies, too."

"That is obvious, Miss Granger. That is why they are here. The garden likes nothing better than to please its guests. Did my brother not explain that to you?"

Hermione suddenly blushed; it was like having someone eavesdrop on your thoughts, or worse, your fantasies. She realized it had been her favorite kind of brook, too: clear and quick, gliding over a mosaic of smooth stones. Did he find her preferences embarrassingly Romantic? Did he share them? Somehow, she found that very hard to believe. She supposed it was possible that he was experiencing a completely different garden.

"I would not have thought _you _partial to water lilies," said Hermione finally.

"You are right."

"You do see them, don't you?" He gave a nod. "How has the garden pleased _you _then? It hardly seems fair that it should only listen to my wishes."

"There are many kinds of wishes, Miss Granger," he said softly. But before she could ask his meaning, he stiffened and looked away. "I believe I see the door up ahead," he said. They exited in silence and parted ways.

pp

When Hermione returned back to the flat, a letter with Ron's familiar seal awaited her.

Dear Hermione,

I told you I would write if I found out any more news about Harry. Well, it turns out some news found me.

Yesterday, while Mum and Percy were out seeing the sights, I received a visit from two unwelcome guests: one looked almost half-goblin, the other could have been Hagrid's cousin – except he was a vicious bastard. They demanded to know Harry's whereabouts. When I said I didn't know, they forced me to drink Veritaserum, and even then seemed to doubt me.

Whatever they want from Harry, they want it badly.

If Dad were still alive, I could have him check any Ministry records on my visitors. Maybe Percy can still pull some strings there, but he claims to have "walked away from all that" (every bloody time I talk to him!). I wish you were here, Hermione. What has Harry gotten himself into? And why didn't he tell us?

I will let you know what I find out.

Ron

The unfairness of it struck her first. Harry Potter, orphaned at birth, living under the dark threat of Voldemort for his entire young life – couldn't the gods grant him peace? Didn't he deserve it? Hadn't he paid his dues?

Hermione closed her eyes and saw, with stunning clarity, a vision of Harry, pain and fear in his eyes, announcing his intention to leave the country. She had asked him to tell her his trouble; he had refused, had shrugged off her concern, and she had _let him go_. Guilt and concern flooded her, becoming a single emotion.

But her mind was not asleep, and a certain unassailable logic began to present itself. Why had he turned away from her help that night? He never had before. Why would Harry have to go into hiding? He was the saviour of the wizarding world, for Merlin's sake! He was The Boy Who Lived. All doors were open to him. Weren't they?

Her precise, academic mind – almost without her permission – began methodically to review the events since Harry had suddenly reentered her life. What _had _Harry been doing since the war? "Wearing out my hero's welcome," he had said. "Resting on my laurels." She hadn't pressed him – maybe because it had felt too good to have him listen to her for a change. Maybe because she wanted to believe he truly wanted to. And maybe he had, but now she wondered whether he had been more concerned with avoiding talking about himself.

Harry, in the wake of Voldemort's demise, was lost, floundering: she saw it now with such clarity that her earlier ignorance of it seemed unpardonable. His whole life had been consumed by a single occupation. And with that occupation removed, after the hero's luster had faded, what then? Hermione herself had fled to Hogwarts, to the familiar. She had cloistered herself away from the world outside to the point that even walking down a London city street overwhelmed her.

But what of Harry? Could he be blamed if, with Voldemort gone, he misstepped in some grave way? But in what way?

If only she had forced him to tell her his troubles that night! Had she just wanted to prove to herself (and to him) that she could let him go? She should have swallowed her pride, begged him to stay. But she hadn't. And now there was nothing she could do to help him.

pp


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Really, Ginny, I'm not sure I can handle yet another Ministry event." It was the following evening. She had kept the contents of Ron's letter to herself: something told her that she should not risk revealing Harry's potential troubles to the wife of the Assistant to the Assistant Minister.

"Hermione, you should be flattered," said Neville from the doorway. "Even I dine with the Minister only rarely."

Hermione groaned, but went to her room to change, thinking grimly that this was turning out not to be a very relaxing holiday.

In addition to the minister, in attendance were his wife Agatha, his daughter Caroline, Augustus Snape and his brother, and sundry others. At least the seating arrangements were to Hermione's liking. She sat between Ginny and Augustus. Snape was across the table from her, very much monopolized by the attentions of Caroline Fudge. He seemed rather neutral toward his admirer – but perhaps in the world of Severus Snape, neutrality was a form of affection. Who could say?

In the meantime, Augustus chatted amiably with her about her time in London. He asked her whether she had been to Withershins since their walk.

"Yes, just yesterday," she responded. "In fact, your brother was there, too."

"Was he indeed?" said Augustus, raising an eyebrow across the table.

Though Caroline was engaged in a conversation with Snape, she did not miss this announcement.

"Oh, I dearly love Withershins," she cried. "I did not know that you frequented that place, Severus. It is one of my favorites!"

"Tell me, Caroline, when were you there last?" asked Snape, a slight edge to his voice.

"It _is _so difficult to find the time. I do suppose it's been – well –"

"What are you discussing down there?" asked Cornelius from the other end of the table. "I must know."

"We are discussing Withershins," said Neville.

"Ah, Withershins. Very old magic, that place. Very old. I find it rather unsettling, myself."

"I believe Withershins dates back to the age of Elizabeth," said Augustus. "But my brother is more versed in its lore. Severus?"

Snape glared at Augustus. "You will excuse me if I do not feel like performing at your whim tonight."

"Oh, come, Severus," said Caroline. "How I love history! Especially to hear you tell it – you make it all seem so interesting."

Snape positively glowered. Hermione watched all of this with great interest. Oh, they would make a fine match, she thought, smiling to herself. Snape chose that moment to look at her. "Go on, Professor," she said, still smiling. "Do not disappoint your eager audience."

"At your urging, Miss Granger, I resign myself to my fate. But do not expect colorful story-telling. It is not in my nature." He placed down his knife and fork, and began. "The garden was created in the reign of Queen Elizabeth by the great wizard Tarnius. Elizabeth, brilliant diplomat that she was, courted the favor of the wizarding world at first; though devout by many accounts, her wish was peace for her nation. She was well aware that many commoners still turned to the so-called "cunning people" to assist them with love and illness, to divine their future and secure their crops from the ravages of early frost. Elizabeth was masterful at winning the love of the common folk; it was her great gift. So she let the Magical people be for a time.

"Thus it was that the great wizard Tarnius designed, as a gift for the queen, a garden to please her every whim. She was very much taken with her gift, and even knighted Tarnius. Of course, the garden was kept a secret from all but her innermost circle. It is believed that she and her favorite paramour Robert Dudley spent many stolen hours there. But in 1563, not too many years after her coronation, something happened to turn Elizabeth's heart against the Magical world she had befriended. She enacted the Act Against Conjurations, Enchantments, and Witchcrafts, thereby making the practice of witchcraft a serious offense. The reason for her change of heart is unknown. Perhaps she wished to fully secure the support of clergy that were clamoring for our blood. Perhaps she wished to distance herself from the memory of her mother Anne Boleyn, who had been executed on a charge of witchcraft herself."

Snape paused for a moment, and took a sip of wine. Hermione watched him intently. Disagreeable as he generally was, he did know how to tell a story. His voice was mesmerizing.

"Tarnius was furious at her betrayal. Upon hearing of it, he sealed the door, with one of Elizabeth's favorite advisors still inside. When he finally released him out of pity, he had gone mad, and caused Elizabeth no end of trouble throughout her reign.

"No Muggle ever went into the garden again. The legend persisted, however, of a magical garden in the heart of the city. The Muggles called it Withershins – meaning of the occult, counter to nature. Out of perhaps a sense of playfulness, the Magical world adopted that name, and by that name it has gone ever since. And now I have finished my performance, Augustus. Have I demonstrated to your satisfaction that I am capable of discoursing at length on more than Potions?"

Augustus did not speak, but smiled warmly at his brother, who scowled in return.

Caroline was not to be ignored. "I was positively _enraptured_, Severus. You do have an encyclopedic mind – especially concerning the betrayal of our kind by Muggles."

"I do not seek the topic out. It merely presents itself to anyone who studies our history."

Caroline suddenly turned her attention to Hermione, catching her completely off guard. "Miss Granger, can you tell us what they teach at your Muggle schools about our people? I have always been so curious."

Obviously, Miss Fudge had done her research on Hermione's background. Hermione felt a flush rise to her cheeks. "It has been some time since I attended Muggle schools, Miss Fudge. But I believe they consider the days of witch hunts to be a dark chapter of their history, a time at which they were blindly driven by superstition."

"How interesting. I suppose I am hard-pressed to decide which I find more offensive: seeking out and killing our people due to fear of our power, or ignorance of us altogether. I present my question to the table."

Finally, Augustus spoke, sounding for the first time since Hermione had met him somewhat ruffled. "Caroline, it is the Ministry that insures their ignorance. No one is in a better position to understand that than you. For Merlin's sake, use your mind."

"I find I must disagree with you," said Snape. "History is my witness. Please remember the Enlightenment: the Muggles turned from us first. And I say good riddance."

Hermione rose from the table. "You will pardon me for any breach of etiquette, but I believe I have heard quite enough. No, don't get up. Thank you, Minister, for your invitation. I am sorry I haven't the stomach to see it through." She walked from the room, and promptly Disapparated.

pp

The British Library Exhibition Rooms – shrines at which Muggles genuflect over petty artifacts. Such no doubt was the opinion of most wizards and witches, but not Hermione. She had always found peace of mind here, and now she came out of a desire to cleanse herself of the night before at the Minister's, of her worry over Harry.

She walked slowly, pausing over manuscripts under glass. There was a magic in them – not wizarding magic, true, but what passed for human magic: that inexplicable impulse toward something eternal, something beyond this mortal coil.

Visual art had never stirred her. She occasionally went to the Tate Gallery out of duty. It moved her not, and she had wondered at times if there were something wrong with her. But here, in the British Library, she reveled in the exhibits; the written word was celebrated in all its glory. Surely to fix ephemeral sound, to still it eternally, was a kind of magic in itself.

Her favorite was the Lindisfarne Gospels: it was a work of art that made sense to her. She stared into the display case which dimly lit the eighth-century book. On the left page was a stunningly intricate geometric design as brilliantly colored and detailed as a Persian rug. Opposite this was the first page of the Gospel of John. Within the outlines of the letters wild patterns intertwined and devoured each other. A light webbing of ornamentation surrounded the words, connecting them into one. It was a fantasia on the written word – a worshipping of the word. "_In the beginning, there was the word." _She stared into its luminescence, lost in its intricacies.

"Horror vacui," said a voice. "A fitting term, is it not?"

Hermione started and spun around, but quickly regained her composure. "Professor. Many people consider it appropriate to approach someone from the front or the side." She took in his figure, dressed in black wool trousers and an old-fashioned linen shirt with too many buttons, at odds with the modern architecture that surrounded them. "Why are you here? The garden is one thing, but this is the last place I would expect to find you. Are you following me?"

He shrugged, and contemplated the Gospels again. "I have always found this particular page to be very beautiful."

"Muggle though it is."

"Miss Granger, my behavior last night was ungentlemanly and unacceptable. I assure you, none of my comments were directed at you."

"I derive little comfort from that. My parents were Muggles, you know."

"I am aware of that. Will you – forgive me, Miss Granger?"

She stared at the intricate lines on the page in front of her. "Do you really find it beautiful?"

"I do," he said softly. Then, after a hesitation, he added, "But I also find it sad."

"Sad? To me it seems, well, magical."

"Horror vacui: the fear of empty space. It refers to the designs of course, but I wonder if it doesn't apply to the text as well. One fills a page with words, and the words mimic substance. But they are nothing."

She stared at the page in front of her. "This artist did not think so."

Snape leaned closer toward her, and spoke in a near whisper. "Look closely, Miss Granger. Look very closely. What you see as a celebration is merely the embroidery of despair, a despair that written words cannot be more than what they are."

"Why are you – why are you telling me these things?"

"When you go to Haiti, Miss Granger, you will begin to wonder whether our reliance on writing is but a weakness, a failing. Whether it is a dependence. For that is the Haitian belief. They never commit their magic to writing, for they believe writing dilutes its power. It is not a comfortable idea for bookish people like ourselves. I should like to prepare you."

Hermione continued to stare at the Gospel of John. Had he just tacitly accepted her upcoming sojourn in Haiti? She might forgive him, after all. His apology now complete, Severus Snape did not leave her to silent contemplation. After she finally peeled herself from the Lindisfarne Gospels, and proceeded to another display case, he padded silently beside her. No one made less noise than Severus Snape. She listened for signs of life from the man beside her: a rustling, a sigh. Did the man even breathe? It was easier to wonder at this than to consider why he there at all, quietly contemplating Muggle artifacts next to her.

She found his continued presence at first unnerving, then irritating. Finally, oddly, it was nothing at all. It was as if she were still alone. She continued her path from display to display. Though she loved the anonymous ancient manuscripts best, she was not immune to the allure of seeing in person Jane Austen's History of England in her handsome 16-year-old hand, Lewis Carroll's original, fantastical illustrations of Alice. They were long dead, these Muggles. What was this impulse that possessed one to behold their original manuscripts, preserved behind glass? She remembered her companion, and was about to ask him this very question (why not?), when he spoke instead:

"How doth the little crocodile  
Improve his shining tail,  
And pour the waters of the Nile  
On every golden scale!  
How cheerfully he seems to grin,  
How neatly spread his claws,  
And welcome little fishes in  
With gently smiling jaws!"

She gaped at him. But her astonishment at hearing him recite Lewis Carroll's impish parody paled in comparison to her shock at what he did next: he smiled at her. He positively grinned. It frankly terrified her. And then, without warning, she was no longer terrified. She was laughing – so hard that the few tourists that were near stared at her disapprovingly, so hard that she sounded like her mother. She thought she might start crying. But she kept laughing instead. When she finally stopped, she heard Snape chuckle softly. "Welcome, little fish," he said, his eyes glittering with amusement.

Outside, Snape turned to her abruptly. "Miss Granger, my brother is insisting that I serve as your escort to the Ministry New Year's Ball. You are welcome, of course, to reject this offer as the foolish nonsense that it is."

Hermione held back her laughter enough to reply, "What a charming proposal! How could any woman possibly refuse?"

"I admit your refusal may estrange me from my one living relation."

"You seem quite capable of that without my assistance."

"True enough. I shall tell him I tried my best…" He turned and began to walk away.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"I had thought you risked the British Library just to apologize to me."

"I did. Consider this invitation a frivolous addendum unworthy of your consideration."

"In that case, I will accompany you, Professor."

"Very well. It's just a formality. But the Ministry – and my brother – are old-fashioned in this way."

"Of course."

"I will see you in a few days then."

pp

The day of the New Year's Ball, Hermione went to the garden one last time. The next day, she was to return to Hogwarts. She paused at the sight of a dark figure ahead of her. Surely an evening in the company of the professor was quite enough for one day. But she realized it was Snape the Younger, so she stood her ground.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," called out Augustus. "How lovely that you are here. Are you finding the garden to your liking?"

"I have been told it would be impossible not to."

"Well, that is a theory held by some. I must say I am glad to see you. We will surely have little opportunity to discuss anything of substance this evening; such is the nature of balls, I'm afraid. Will you do me the favor of walking with me?"

"It would be a pleasure, Mr. Snape."

It was not a shaded brook-side stroll this time; Hermione and Augustus wandered instead through formal gardens with elaborate topiary, ending at last in the most intricately designed herb garden she had ever seen. Augustus moved slowly through it examining the plants one by one, occasionally plucking a leaf and pinching it to release its scent. He held them out to Hermione to inhale.

"I do dearly love herbs," said Augustus. "Lemon thyme. Do you like it? But I am monopolizing. Let us turn the conversation toward more appropriate matters. I assume you are looking forward to tonight? All young ladies love a ball, I am told."

Hermione snorted her disgust.

Augustus laughed. "You are quite unlike most women I know. It is refreshing. Here." He held out another crushed leaf to her. It smelled like lemon and rosemary and mint.

"Refreshing," repeated Hermione.

"Severus shares your lack of enthusiasm for events. He has always been so, even before he – well, I do not like to speak it."

"You would think he could rely on your Ministry influence to pardon him from attending such events."

She was only teasing, but Augustus seemed taken aback. "Oh no, Miss Granger. Severus would never take advantage of my position. Surely you know him better."

"I confess I do not know him at all. The more I see him, the less I am able to make out his character."

"He has only asked me to use my influence once. Fudge almost made a most imprudent appointment in the wake of the victory celebrations following the war. I was just solidifying my influence with Fudge, so it was a hard-fought win. But I won, nonetheless."

"I wouldn't have thought Professor Snape to have much of an interest in ministry politics – his life seems rather monastic. Though I can't say it surprises me that he would use whatever means necessary to act on a grudge." Suddenly, Hermione froze. An imprudent appointment right after the war? One resulting from the excitement of victory? He wouldn't. He couldn't. And yet she knew instantly as sure as she knew her own name that the person whose ministry appointment Snape had blocked was Harry. Her worry over Harry suddenly merged into a righteous fury that could barely be contained.

"Miss Granger? Are you feeling unwell?"

"Sudden fatigue and light-headedness. Nothing unusual. I confess I do not sleep well in the city."

"Are you well enough to Apparate? Can I be of any assistance?"

"It is not far from here to Neville and Ginny's. I will just walk."

"I will escort you." She nodded, grateful for an arm to hold on to. She did not trust her steps. Silently, he walked her through the door that had suddenly appeared, and back to her flat, occasionally looking at her with concern.

"I am sorry I am not better company," she said weakly.

"Not at all, Miss Granger."

"I'm afraid I am in no condition to attend the ball tonight. Will you – apologize for my absence?"

"Of course. Whatever you wish, Miss Granger. Might I fetch you a Healer?"

"I am a Healer, Mr. Snape. I will be fine." She fled inside the building without looking back.

pp

Ginny and Neville finally left for the ball after many protestations. Hermione, sick with anger and worry, also felt a profound loneliness. She reread Parvati's letters from the holiday in an attempt to cheer herself; but it was an unwise choice. Beneath her friend's cheerful words, she now saw, more than before, a hint of sadness. To her dark delight, she discovered that she could blame that on Snape, too: Snape, who had separated her friend from the man she loved; Snape, who had driven Harry into a life underground; Snape, who had betrayed them all in Tom Riddle's cottage.

She had barely completed this thought when the man himself entered, stopping a few steps within the room. He made some cursory inquiry after her health before slipping into silence, watching her intently. In distress, Hermione rose to her feet, clutching the last of Parvati's letters to her. Snape stood in the kind of strained stillness that results from internal forces at war. Once he opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it.

At last, the war was won, or lost: he strode powerfully toward her. Hermione's irritation was quickly replaced by a feeling akin to fear. A vision of him kneeling before Voldemort, black mark on his arm, seized her. She began to step back, instinctively, and stumbled slightly. His hand suddenly gripped her elbow, steadied her, then dropped. He stepped back.

When he finally spoke, his voice was deeply resonant. "I have struggled in vain. It will not do. Please let me express how ardently I admire and love you." Neither marked the sound of Parvati's letter hitting the floor. "I am, of course, well aware of the vast difference in our situations. My blood line has been pure for many generations. But there is no way round it. I have every hope that, with your intellect, you will benefit from my tutelage and eventually be made presentable. You needn't look hurt, Miss Granger. I do not blame you. You were raised by Muggle parents and then fell in with friends who are beneath your potential. But no matter. My feelings cannot be repressed." He seized her hand, and kissed it swiftly. "I ask your permission, Miss Granger, to pay court to you. Do you grant it?"

He had released her hand, but her skin still seemed to pulse with his touch. She met his intense gaze and heard herself reply, "I am sure many women would be flattered by your address. But I find that I am not. I am sorry to be the cause of anyone's pain. I can only hope that your considerable reservations will quickly overcome whatever feelings for me you believe you possess."

His expression turned to one of unadulterated surprise. "And is this all the response I am to receive?"

"What more is there to say? You have insulted me, you have insulted my family, and you have insulted my friends."

"I have only spoken the truth," he replied with difficulty. "Would you have me lie and flatter you? Surely you know me better."

"The truth? The truth, Professor, is that my parents are dead. Not a day goes by that I am not grateful for the way they raised me. I am not subject to your nineteenth century decorum, I am not confined within some incestuous wizarding community. I am sorry to say, I am not the least bit tempted to become a beneficiary of your tutelage, as you called it! Why don't you direct your efforts toward Bill Weasley? He is certainly a more willing protégé. Or perhaps, having successfully driven him away from Hogwarts and from my friend, you are looking for even greater challenges."

"I have only protected Mr. Weasley from an impossible attachment. Even you must see that!"

"Impossible attachment? Parvati is affection itself. I fail to see how you can consider them ill-matched, just because she does not meet some ridiculous standard of yours. How can you let your pride so govern you? You of all people should see it for the weakness that it is. Or have you forgotten the events in Tom Riddle's cottage?"

His eyes narrowed. "I have never forgotten."

"If I recall, it was one of my _unworthy _friends who saved your life that night."

"Ah yes," he snarled. "_Potter_. The savior of the wizarding world. And you his devotee. How perfect."

"How can you sneer at him? Was using your influence to keep him from work in the Ministry not enough?" She studied Snape's response; rather than angry, he looked truly shaken. "Can you deny you've done it?"

"I have no wish to deny it. I would do it again."

"How can you say that? You who bowed before the Dark Lord in the final hour? You who defended him unto the last? How dare you lash out at Harry to mask your own failings!"

Snape closed his eyes tightly, as if mastering himself. When finally he spoke, his voice shook, "This, then, is your opinion of me?"

"It is."

"I believe, then, we have both said quite enough. I understand your feelings perfectly well, and need only be ashamed of what my own have been. I bid you goodnight and goodbye." And he was gone.

pp


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Even amid a throng of Muggle tourists, Bill Weasley was not immune to the pull of Machu Picchu. He pushed past the crowds that wandered through the citadel until he stood on a precipice, level with wisps of clouds, and the craggy, green mountain peaks. He inhaled. The air was damp and fragrant; for once, it wasn't raining. He stared down into the canyon below.

He yearned to be here alone – without the Muggle crowds in the daylight or the scurrying goblin activity in the night. He was hard-pressed to decide which presence he found more distracting. Probably the goblins. He could sense their desire for gold pulsing beneath the surface of their efficient movements, beneath their quiet utterances. In the past few weeks, he had delivered them very little. He had broken curses on one tomb; it had taken him ten days and been so grueling he was taking two more to recover. The Inca magicians were apparently as clever and resourceful as the architects who had designed the citadel. He had never encountered curses so potent, or in such bewildering combinations: curse cocktails, he called them to himself. Cocktails. He could use one.

The goblin Silvermidge seemed unfazed by the slowness of Bill's progress. This puzzled him. When he had worked with Silvermidge in Cairo (though he was called Stricknaught then), his impatience had been legendary, rushing delicate procedures best left unhurried. Perhaps he had donned a new personality along with his name, but he was the paragon of patience now.

The absence of human company was beginning to grate on him, too. Why hadn't the goblins hired more curse breakers? Bill knew he was good – hell, he might even be the best – but there were others that were at least close seconds. Certainly having some other wizards and witches around would speed their progress. Goblins were virtually useless in cursebreaking. That power had been taken from them long ago.

He looked around one last time before walking along the path down the mountain some ways, stealing into the woods, and Apparating back to camp. The goblins were all sleeping in the cave. Bill had chosen to set up camp outside, alone. He wanted to see the sun a little bit, even if it was through his closed eyelids. He hated working at night.

He sat down in a stump chair he'd transfigured, and began another letter to Parvati. How many letters had he written to women from remote corners of the world to stem his loneliness? Was this any different? He suspected it was.

_Dear Parvati_, he began. Easy enough, but then what? Snape had convinced him that Parvati was not interested in him, not in that way. Snape had built his case with that inexorable Snapean logic that Bill admired and despised. Bill would be a fool to turn down the chance to break curses at Machu Picchu just to pursue her. Snape did not understand surrendering to emotion. That was clear enough. Certainly Snape would not still pine away for a woman who obviously did not return his affections. You had to admire the cold logic of the man.

_Watched the Muggle tourists as they came up the mountain this morning, sweat-drenched. I find them irresistibly cute sometimes. Must be my father's influence._

_They wander through the roofless halls, they stare at the mountains and down into the canyon below. All of them say, "It's magical." "It's magic." It's like some kind of requirement. Or maybe a compulsion. You've got to wonder what they mean, don't you? Poor Muggles._

_I must say, it is a beautiful site. Breathtaking, really. I wish you could see it. Maybe the Muggles do pick up on the magic of the place. It practically screams it. Sometimes I can't even sleep because it's tugging at me, like some forgotten dream._

_And I do dream of it. There is an Intihuatana stone at a high point of the citadel – it means the "hitching post of the sun." It is one of only a few such stones left. The Spaniards systematically destroyed them all. Shamanic legend says that touching one's forehead to the stone can open one's eyes to the spirit world. I admit I tried it one night, when the goblins were off in the shadows, no doubt whispering their fantasies of bathing in gold. Nothing happened, of course. But I've dreamt about it ever since. _

_I just reread your letter. Your holiday experience seems only too familiar. My own mum is just beginning to seem like herself again, but even then, I'm never sure. Sometimes I think I see the Molly Weasley can-do optimism surface, but it could be a facsimile of the real thing. I'm not sure I'd recognize the real thing if I saw it. It's been a long time. At least she's in Romania right now with Charlie and Ron. Ron coped with Dad's death the best of any of us. Being with him always makes me feel like things will be okay. He's the most like Mum of any of us._

_I should get some sleep. It's New Year's Eve. Do you know, I am the only wizard for probably miles around? I hope this makes you pity me and write to me again soon._

_Bill_

pp

How long Hermione stood staring at the door, she did not know. To move, even to seat herself and relieve her trembling frame, seemed too trying to attempt. Finally she collapsed onto the settee. And then she wept from sheer confusion.

When she had exhausted that means of release, she found she must face the events that had just transpired. Professor Snape was in love with her – to such an extent that he would overlook her Muggle parentage, that he would declare himself to her in a public fashion! It was not to be believed.

Nor to be borne. How dare he? That he even considered she might return his affections, after all he had done to her, doubled the weight of his sins against her. Was the man without scruple? But she already knew the answer to that question. It had been proved in Tom Riddle's cottage.

To think that Harry had saved his life, had withheld the truth about him, and was repaid by such a betrayal! Who knew where Harry even was now, or what had befallen him – all because Snape had blocked his Ministry appointment. He had admitted to it without any semblance of regret or shame – just as he had admitted to driving Bill Weasley from Hogwarts and Parvati.

She heard voices in the corridor. Knowing full well she could not face Ginny or Neville in her current state, she fled to her room.

pp

At breakfast the next morning, she barely could converse with Ginny and Neville. Fortunately, they were so full of ball gossip that they did not mark her silence.

She found herself mumbling a need for air, and, not too many minutes later, was knocking on the door of Withershins, speaking its name. She needed to be calmed. _I want to be lost_, she thought. _Please, lose me_ – _at least for a little while_.

She walked in forest – dark, silent hemlock forest. Fallen needles thickly carpeted the ground. Her footfalls made no noise. The only sound was her heart beating, and even that, she knew, was an illusion of sound only. It was difficult to say how long she walked. A few minutes, a few hours. She meandered as she pleased. There was no path – or all was path, as there was no underbrush.

A sense of calm began to descend upon her – until she saw a figure through the trees. It was him; she did not even need to look closer. Her displeasure mounted, and as it did so, the garden seemed to listen to her and the distance between them stretched. The shadows threatened to swallow him. Then, in an eyeblink, he was before her, for his will was stronger.

He carefully met her eyes. "Miss Granger, will you do me the honor of reading this letter?" He held out a tidily sealed scroll. She took it before she had weighed the wisdom of doing so. After a slight bow, he turned from her and was gone.

The small sense of calm her walk had afforded was gone. She questioned whether she should read the letter. Perhaps she should return it with the seal unbroken.

But she was Hermione Granger still. In truth, now that she held this sealed mystery in her hand, Voldemort himself might have had a hard time deterring her from pursuing it. She sat down atop a mound of needles beside a large, knotted hemlock, and broke the seal.

Dear Miss Granger,

You needn't worry that this letter contains any repetition of the sentiments that last night were so repugnant to you. The feelings I expressed cannot be forgotten soon enough by either party. That I will endeavor to do so with all my will is the last promise I shall pronounce on the subject.

Yet I fear I will be unable to rest without answering the two offences, of different magnitude, that you laid to my charge last night. I shall address the lesser of the two first. That I persuaded Mr. Weasley to accept the Gringott's offer I readily admit. But I assure you that I did not do so out of any malice toward your friend. Miss Patil is an affectionate enough girl, if a bit simple. I did not understand, but nor did I begrudge Mr. Weasley his preference. Yet after much observation, I concluded that her heart was not one to be easily touched by any man. There appeared to be only one person at Hogwarts to whom her heart seemed truly open, and that, Miss Granger, was you.

I first began to entertain this thought upon being witness, quite by accident, I assure you, to a rather intimate exchange between you on the grounds of Hogwarts. While I have since come to believe you do not return her feelings, her mildness of response to Mr. Weasley's rather demonstrative affections convinced me that her interests lie elsewhere. In light of your comments last night, I should perhaps reexamine my assumptions, but believe me that I acted on behalf of Mr. Weasley's best interests alone.

The second offense, were it true, would be grave indeed. But you must allow me to give my account of Voldemort's demise. Perhaps your Gryffindor generosity will, for once, not be misplaced.

It is no secret to anyone now that I was a spy for Albus Dumbledore for many years. It was an attempt, however weak, to atone for the one great mistake of my life. Though Albus granted me his implicit trust, others remained uneasy with my new incarnation. To them, I would never be anything other than a Death Eater. I confess I did little to allay their fears, and in some cases actively cultivated them. In part, this was out of self-preservation. As a spy, I needed to uphold their expectations. I admit, however, that I also reveled in my persona, using it as an excuse to redress some personal grievances.

As you know, I despised James Potter. My reasons were many; most – if not all – were just. In Harry, I saw all of James' flaws reborn – his devil-may-care approach to risk and sacrifice, his impulsive, self-aggrandizing courage, his ability to keep others in his shadow. Yet I believed, because Albus believed, that Potter was essential to our struggle, and so I watched him and protected him. That was my charge, and the fates, who so revel in irony, no doubt enjoyed themselves immensely at my expense.

As Potter told you, I was there when he killed Voldemort, as the cottage burned around us with slow, smoldering magic. On the day of the last battle, our sole aim was for Potter to face Voldemort. The battle was just a diversion. For months, he had been trained in the killing curse. In his hand, he carried the twin of Voldemort's wand. And the Order had planted a seed of doubt to ensure that Voldemort would not strike first. All was set.

It was my charge to follow Potter that day, cloaked in Flitwick's most powerful Concealment Charm. Many were the curses I warded off that were aimed at the Boy Who Lived. I tell you this not to tout my own efforts, but rather to make you understand the exhaustion that threatened to overtake me as I followed Harry into Tom Riddle's cottage when he finally broke through the ranks of Death Eaters. I only remained standing by gripping a window sill, and leaning against the wall, trying to reserve my strength for whatever would follow. I watched Potter ward the door, quite sure I would not live to see the sun rise.

"At last, Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed, more viper than man.

"This is it, Voldemort. The end of the road," said Potter, raising his wand. Not very eloquent, perhaps, but I suppose we cannot fault him, considering the circumstances.

Voldemort laughed, "The end of the road, indeed. But how so? The world spins itself into many futures. Will you pick Albus Dumbledore's vision of the future – or your own?"

"They are the same," said Potter, disregarding Albus' express orders not to exchange words with Voldemort. He clearly could not resist the temptation to engage in dramatics, to be the storybook hero. Thus the foolish boy endangered us all.

"Are they?" hissed Voldemort. "You are here to kill me. I know that all too well. Have you considered that you hold your own life in your hands? Have you not realized that we cannot live without each other?" He took a step toward Harry. "We are linked. Your scar is but the outward sign of a connection far deeper. Is now the time for us to perish at one another's hands, like two star-crossed lovers? I think not."

Harry remained absolutely still, his wand still pointed at his nemesis. But he allowed Voldemort to continue.

"A part of me was infused into you the day you received that scar. It is why you can speak Parseltongue. It is why you can feel my presence – just as I can feel yours. Our lives are connected."

"Our connection is – is that I am going to kill you. The prophecy – "

"– was _conveniently_ destroyed before either you or I could hear it."

"I've heard the prophecy!" shouted Potter.

"Have you? Then this should not surprise you." He gestured at a small stone bowl perched on the table – his own Pensieve. It began to emit a thin vapor that coalesced into the figure of Sybill Trelawney. Her voice echoed in the chamber with words possibly familiar to you – with a few amendments: "_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies … For if either dies at the hands of the other, neither will the other survive." _

Potter's wand trembled. "How did you – "

"As the original was destroyed, I decided to capture the source. Much easier, in fact, than breaking into the Ministry of Magic. As was extracting the memory from her – though I do not think she enjoyed it."

This was our doing, of course. Never mind how the Order contrived to place Trelawney in the Dark Lord's hand. As for the prophecy, her weakness of mind was, for once, useful: Dumbledore and I were able to alter her memories without too much trouble, though wading through her consciousness was an experience I should not want to repeat. Nonetheless, the plan had a certain elegance. Voldemort would not raise a finger to kill Potter for fear of destroying himself in the process. Potter need only perform the killing curse, as he had been trained.

But Albus miscalculated. Even if he could have guessed that Potter, his hero Potter, would believe the Dark Lord over him, how could he have foreseen that, for all Potter's bravado, he would reject the martyr's crown?

I have often wondered whether Gryffindor bravery is merely a supreme egotism – a belief that, as the protagonist of the tale, one must be assured survival. Perhaps only Hufflepuffs knowingly sacrifice themselves. Certainly the war gave proof enough of that house tendency. But let me resume my tale.

Voldemort advanced a step further, flexing his gauntlet menacingly – invitingly. Harry stood as if in a trance, as Voldemort wove his web of words. "Now you know what I realized in the halls of the Ministry when you felt my presence within you. Dumbledore realized it, too. He could have killed me – but he did not. He did not because it would have killed you, too. His sentimentality got the better of him – for the moment. Then he realized what he must do.

"You are his sacrificial lamb, foolish boy. That is your purpose. Why else would he send you here, all alone, to face me? Do you really believe he has such supreme confidence in his protégé? Or perhaps he knows his ends will be met no matter which of us wins the upper hand?" Voldemort's voice then sank to his most intimate whisper – one that seems to dive into one's soul and probe all its tender secrets. I am only too acquainted with it. "I _know _you, Harry Potter. I know what you've wondered in the dark of night. You've searched within yourself for something, some inherent greatness to explain why you were destined to destroy the most powerful wizard that ever lived. And what did you find, Harry?" His voice was barely audible now, and Harry closed his eyes at the sound of it. "You found nothing. Nothing. Do you honestly believe Dumbledore would think you capable of destroying me?"

Voldemort then shifted to his most commanding tones and Harry's eyes snapped open. "Face what has always been true! Your only worth, Potter, is your link to me. Will you die a martyr, or live by my side, a lord of this land?"

For a long moment, I scrutinized the Boy Who Lived. Whether he was screwing his courage to the sticking place, or falling prey to temptation, I do not know, but I knew I could not accept the risk. His wand was no longer pointed at Voldemort.

I gathered the last of my remaining strength, and pointed my wand. "_Expelliarmus_," I called out, catching Potter's wand just as I pivoted toward Voldemort. "_Avada Kedavra_," I cried, both wands aimed at him.

Many things happened at once. Bolts of green flame shot toward Voldemort, hurling my body back against the wall; Flitwick's Concealment Charm shattered; and the cottage, so much an extension of Tom Riddle's own magic, began to burn. I felt my flesh singe. I believe I screamed, but my aim at Voldemort's shriveling form did not falter, not until something suddenly grabbed my right hand, seizing the wand. It was Potter. He wrested it from my grip and pointed it, not at Voldemort, but at me.

To his credit, he did not try to kill me. No. He merely cast an _Expelliarmus _and, weak as I was, my wand flew easily from my grip into his hand even though I was midspell. I collapsed, leaving quite a bit of burnt skin and robes behind me. Helplessly, I watched as Potter crouched down beside Voldemort, who was breathing but weakly. Potter stood up again, paced once or twice, talking to himself, arguing. At last he pointed his wand at Voldemort. "_Avada Kadevra_," he called out, his voice quiet and determined. With that, Voldemort was no more.

After a long moment he turned his attention to me. "I believe you wanted to kill me, Snape," he said.

I looked up at him with as much dignity as I could, considering I was lying in a pool of my own blood. "I wanted to kill Voldemort, Potter." I could not resist adding, "As, I thought, did you."

He stared at me for a moment, as if confused, and then stalked closer, his teeth bared. "I would never have joined him, Snape. Never! Do you hear me?"

"As you say," I said. Then I began to tremble. I believe I was going into shock. And the floor was beginning to burn.

"I killed Voldemort," he said, bending his head toward me, his eyes blazing.

"I suppose that's technically true," I conceded, gasping. "Help me leave this place, Potter, before we are both dead."

He slowly stooped to gather me in his arms. "No one would ever believe your story, Snape."

"That is the truest thing you have said tonight," I replied, as more pain assailed me. I remember nothing else of Tom Riddle's cottage.

When I came to myself, I was in triage. The Healer attending me described the image that now plasters every wall of the wizarding world: Potter striding from the burning cottage with my wounded form over his shoulder, holding high in his other hand the gauntlet of Voldemort, cheers rising to high heaven for the Boy Who Lived.

It is a fantastical story, is it not? If your abhorrence of me prevents your believing it, I urge you to appeal to my brother Augustus, the only other who knows the true events of that day. He is an even more skilled Legilimens than I, and when I open myself to him, there can be no secrets between us. I trust your brief acquaintance with him must have demonstrated to you that _his _honor at least is above reproach.

Potter was right that no one would believe things had happened any differently. I have never envied him for being a hero. I have kept silent while Harry basked in glory – and then, predictably, squandered it on childish whims. But even I have my limits. Capable I am of many things, but I have not been tempted by Voldemort since the day I left behind that life. Vengeance and atonement have been the twin stars guiding me for almost twenty years. I am many things deplorable, but I am not inconstant, Miss Granger.

I believe I have trespassed on your time enough. May I take the liberty to wish you good life and health for all your days? For your sake, I will do my best to prevent our paths from crossing again.

Respectfully,

Severus Snape

pp

_What more could one expect from a Slytherin? _thought Hermione angrily. _Deception, dissemblance, evasion, obfuscation. How bloody typical! _She read the letter again with the morbid pleasure with which one worries a scab.

_There is no reason to believe such a man. His claims are outlandish_.

She continued to walk through the forest, her pace more frenzied now, her hand that clutched the letter trembling. In spite of her body's agitation, her mind began slowly, inexorably, to revisit all that she had assumed fact. She tried to hold fast to her indignation, but it seemed to slip further and further away as her mind seized upon the puzzle with which it had been presented. Questions began to assert themselves – questions always had been her weakness.

Wasn't there a certain convenience to Harry's sudden reentrance into her life? He had appeared after a two-year hiatus, listening to her, kissing her, showing her all the attention that he never had in their school days. Then, when the groundwork was laid, he had told her his biggest secret. It was, she reflected, the one confidence he had shared with her – for he certainly hadn't told her anything else about his life after the war. Just why had he told her? To warn her off Snape, he had said. He claimed to have told Parvati because her father had turned to Voldemort, too. The logic of this failed her now.

And was there _any _plausible reason for his telling Hagrid? Any reason besides Hagrid's utter inability to keep a secret?

Doubt began to creep into her. She remembered Harry, his face obscured in darkness, telling her the events of Voldemort's demise. He had shook as he told her. She had thought he was crying – crying for Snape. "I wanted to believe in his goodness," he had said. Since when did Harry cry for Snape? Perhaps it was his own goodness he had wanted to believe in.

She continued to wander at random through the wood, as if attempting to escape a single looming fact: Snape might be telling the truth. It did not save him from being the most arrogant and disagreeable man of her acquaintance, but it was indeed possible that he was not a dishonorable traitor. Yet to admit to that was to call Harry one. Was she prepared to do that?

Augustus had called Harry's possible appointment "most imprudent." Snape's judgment might be swayed by malice, but she found it difficult to believe his brother's would be so. She remembered suddenly, too, the reverence with which Augustus had spoken of his brother in the garden: "I am not capable of such heroism," he had said. What had seemed a naïve – if endearing – sentiment for his older brother suddenly threatened to transfigure itself into something entirely different.

She read the letter again. And then, just because she always was thorough, again.

His claims about Parvati she dismissed as absurd, though she was impressed that so progressive an idea would even occur to a man whose sense of fashion did not extend past the nineteenth century. It _did _explain why he had asked her so impertinently the nature of her and Parvati's relationship that night in her office. She had thought he had been merely too proud to inquire directly about her healing of Parvati. His motives had clearly been different: concern on behalf of his friend's romantic interest – and, she knew now, his own.

His romantic interest – she faced this grim truth once more. Here, too, some pieces began to fall into place, however bewildering their substance remained: his invitation for her to dance with him; his following her to the British Library; his insistence that they walk together through Withershins after their chance encounter. Or was it a chance encounter at all? She had puzzled aloud that the garden listened only to her wishes. As clearly as if he were before her, she heard his soft, silken words of reply: "There are many kinds of wishes, Miss Granger."

Though the air was pleasant, she shivered. She had been his wish; the garden had delivered her to him.

pp


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Neville Longbottom was in excellent spirits. The holiday season could not have gone more swimmingly, in his opinion: his first invitation to the exclusive New Year's Ball; dinner with Augustus Snape; a box of perfectly-cut quills from dear Ginny, now sitting most invitingly on his desk. He rubbed his finger along the virgin tip of one before dipping it into his favorite ink, thinking not for the first time that anyone who believes all black hues are the same is clearly a fool.

He had to admit to a certain relief that his holiday houseguest had returned to Hogwarts. As fond as he was of Hermione, her mercurial moods jarred his sensibilities. First she had stormed out of the Minister's house. Then she abruptly decided not to attend the New Year's Ball. He hoped she had not reflected poorly on his own steadiness of character.

He looked forward to the evening, when he and Ginny might return to the delightful routines of their marriage. Perhaps a foot massage, he thought, thinking longingly of Ginny's soft instep and the way her tiniest toe tucked itself against its neighbor. He sighed. He did not deserve her.

But Neville Longbottom's routine was not destined to be restored that night. When he emerged from the Floo that evening, he found Ginny sitting rigidly in a chair, a giant of a man pacing behind her.

He stepped toward them, confused. "Hagrid? Whatever are you doing here?" asked Neville in surprise.

When the man turned to face him, he realized it wasn't Hagrid. He looked back at Ginny and saw that her eyes were wide with terror. Without thinking, he went for his wand – a second too late.

"_Expelliarmus_," said a rough voice from behind him. Neville's wand flew from his hand. He spun around. Sitting on a stool, squatting like a gargoyle, was a small, gnarled wizard. Or was he a goblin? He eyed Neville, fingering the newly acquired wand.

"Now," he said. "Your wife hasn't been especially cooperative. But you, Mr. Longbottom, have a reputation for cooperation. Our request is simple, really." He uncurled the long fingers of one hand, stretching them in a foreboding, if inscrutable gesture. "We need to locate Harry Potter, and you are going to help us."

Neville glanced at Ginny, his heart pounding in his ears. "I do not know where Harry is," he managed. "No one does. And even if I knew, I would not tell you."

"I am offended by your tone, Mr. Longbottom. It suggests we seek to commit some wrong against your friend, when in truth, we only seek what is due our clients. Mr. Potter has borrowed some rather large sums of money. In our clients' generosity, they are willing to forgive your friend his debts if he performs a simple service for them. Do you want your friend to be forever a fugitive, or to wind up in Azkaban?" He looked at Neville and Ginny, and, as if seeing confirmation of his point in their blank expressions, continued on, his tone triumphant. "The boy flees from us as if we mean to break his kneecaps like a couple of Muggle thugs, when we merely wish to relay a message."

"What kind of service? What kind of service do you want him to perform?" Neville said at last.

"I am delighted by your concern. You are a true friend. All will be revealed. Now, if I may enlist your services in taking a bit of dictation? You do like taking dictation, don't you, Mr. Longbottom?"

pp

"Ah, Severus. I see you could not wait until the staff meeting to pay your holiday respects. I am touched." Minerva smiled, but her voice was like ice.

Snape regarded his headmistress with caution. This was already not going well, and he had not even opened his mouth. Some day, he would match her acerbic tones, but not today. "Minerva. I trust you enjoyed the holiday."

"And small talk as well. Perhaps you are enacting a list of resolutions for the New Year. I commend you. You know I believe strongly in self improvement." Snape sighed heavily. "Or could it be you want something?"

"I am here to request a leave of absence."

"I have already given you leave to attend Augustus' wedding in March."

"I find I need to – amend my plans, Minerva. I have been in touch with Master Bertrand. I must return to Haiti immediately. I'm afraid I will be unable to teach this term."

"I see. So you are not here to pay your holiday respects. Pity." She eyed the dark man sitting in her office for a moment, enjoying his discomfort. "I'm sorry, Severus. I must deny your request."

It was not unexpected, but he seethed nonetheless. "How difficult can it be to find a temporary replacement to teach a collection of imbeciles the art of potionry for a few months? I must go back to Haiti, Minerva. I assure you it's an absolute necessity. It will only be until April."

Minerva rose from her chair. Severus remained completely still, watching her warily. She could at times be as formidable as he – perhaps even more so, for she used her talent but rarely. "Severus," she said, her voice low and cold. "You will remain at Hogwarts. You have signed a contract. You are mine." At the word "mine," he felt a clutch in his stomach. Yes, she could even frighten him sometimes. "Do not engage me in a battle of wills. You will not win. Albus Dumbledore may have had a soft spot for you. I do not. I know who you are and I want you here."

He eyed her coolly. "I had supposed you would be delighted to be rid of me, Minerva."

"Some day, Severus. But not today."

"Very well." He stood. Looking down at her, he added, "I assure you, though I cannot disclose them, that my intentions are honorable."

"I'm sure." She gestured at the door.

pp

Snape walked down the long corridor to his chambers. He tried to focus on the stones beneath his feet, their solidity, their permanence. It was a nice counterpoint to his feeling that the rest of the world was crumbling around him.

He had never been Minerva's favorite. That was sure. In general, they cut a wide berth round each other. But he had not sensed such hostility from her in years. Had Hermione told her? He had believed she would be discreet. She was a Gryffindor, after all. They had an overly developed sense of charity.

He tried not to think of Hermione Granger, and then could think of nothing else. What had possessed him to declare himself to her? He should have left after he had apologized at that Muggle library; any respecting pureblood would have fled. But he had stayed, and felt that feeling of absolute calm descend on him as he stood by her side. She had laughed. Admiring her as he had for months, he had felt something unhinge when she had smiled up at him.

Despite his lack of personal charms, Severus Snape had been pursued as a marriage match by many of the old wizarding families. He despised the whole thing, despised being a tool, a means to an end. Let Augustus be the dutiful son. He holed up in his dungeon, ignored his obligations to the Snape family line, long and proud though it was. Obligations to Dumbledore aside, Hogwarts provided a sanctuary from Caroline Fudge and her ilk. He resigned himself to a life of celibacy and estrangement from the world that had raised him. He had convinced himself that that life suited him.

It never had occurred to him that, in the unlikely event he some day developed a romantic interest, the woman might refuse him.

"You, Severus," he said to himself as he pushed his way into his chambers, "are a fool."

And now that McGonnagal had turned down his request, it appeared there was no preventing his path from crossing Miss Granger's again. He wasn't sure he could bear it, though he had borne much worse.

pp

"He _what_?"

"Confessed his love for me, and asked my permission to, I believe the phrase was, 'pay court' to me."

"I don't believe it. You are talking about Professor _Snape_?"

"I hardly believe it myself, and I was there."

They sat in Hermione's room on the thick wool rug. Though the fire's radiant heat warmed their faces, a persistent draft chilled their backs. Parvati pulled an afghan off the sofa and tucked it around them both.

"Maybe it was a joke. Maybe Ron took some Polyjuice and –"

"It was him," Hermione said. "Anyway, you must reserve your shock for the next part of my tale. I've only just begun." She told her about Snape's version of the events in Tom Riddle's cottage.

For a long moment, Parvati sat in silence. Then – "Do you believe him?"

"I do. Oh, I didn't at first. But – well, I admit I've read his letter enough times to have almost memorized it. The more I weighed the stories against each other, the more I believed Snape. And I do I trust Augustus. I just don't know why Harry told me anything at all. Why didn't he keep it a secret? Why lie when he didn't have to?"

"He probably had a very good reason. Maybe he thought he was protecting you," Parvati said.

Hermione laughed weakly. "Parvati. I don't think you're going to succeed in making everyone honorable in this situation."

Hermione watched Parvati's delicate hands repeatedly comb the fringes of her afghan. "How did – how did Professor Snape take it? Your refusal, I mean."

"I hardly remember. I was so stunned. I suppose he seemed pretty shaken. Don't look at me like that. You're not going to tell me you feel _sorry_ for him?"

"It's just, what it must have taken for him to declare himself like that to you."

"It took arrogance, that's all. I understand these old wizarding families better now. They're used to getting what they want. Anyway, don't feel too distressed on his behalf. I'm sure his feelings will pass quickly enough. If they haven't already."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Parvati said, seizing her hand. "And I must admit, it reflects some good taste on his part." Hermione felt a surge of affection for her friend, and simultaneously realized which "intimate scene" Snape claimed in his letter to have witnessed: Parvati had kissed her on the cheek on the Hogwarts grounds the night after the healing. Perhaps, in the archaic world of Severus Snape, a kiss on the cheek was a sexual overture. She turned to look at Parvati, and their eyes met for a long moment. Hermione had fully intended to disclose the rest of the letter's contents, to tell her Snape's role in convincing Bill to leave, but the evening passed, and she did not.

pp

"Ah, my dear. Recovered from the staff meeting, I see." Minerva rose from her desk and grabbed both Hermione's hands. "Recovered" was an apt description. Sharing a room with Snape had been trying – even though she detected nary a glance in her direction. Hadn't his letter promised he would attempt to prevent their "paths from crossing again"? Apparently even a wizard powerful enough to destroy Voldemort could not stay the inevitability of staff meetings.

"Come, sit," Minerva was saying. "I've just put on a kettle. Tell me about your holiday."

Hermione took a deep breath. "There's not much to tell. Ginny and Neville are irritatingly happy."

Minerva chuckled. "So I've heard. I hope they looked up from time to time to notice they had a guest?"

"Oh, they did – especially to drag me to Ministry events. Honestly, I've had enough Ministry pomp to last me the rest of my days." So far, truth all. Hermione did not lie, but she was not above sins of omission. "I did meet Professor Snape's brother."

"Ah, Augustus. A lovely boy, if I recall. Do you not wonder how one family could produce such different sons?"

Hermione stood up. "I believe the water is done. Allow me." The room was filled with only the sounds of tea preparation for a while.

"I haven't seen Augustus in many years. Did he mention his upcoming nuptials?"

"He did. He is – gracefully resigned to his fate, I think," Hermione said. She stirred her tea thoughtfully. "I confess, Minerva, I don't understand that world. I know more about it now, of course, but the more I know, the more foreign it becomes. I doubt I could ever be a part of it."

"Whatever shall I tell all the wizards proffering their suits for your hand?"

Hermione looked up at Minerva sharply, only to find her eyes twinkling in benign amusement. She forced a laugh. Minerva studied her. "Anything else of note to tell me about your holiday?"

"Not unless you would like me to describe the latest Ministry fashions."

"Goodness, no. As if they've changed in the past century. Well, it happens I have something to tell you. Poppy is returning this evening."

Hermione struggled to swallow her tea. "But I thought she was taking the year –"

"Yes, so did she. But she's come back early."

Hermione felt a wave of possessiveness seize her, the strange events of her holiday temporarily forgotten. She knew she shouldn't, but she had begun to think of the infirmary as hers alone, her ordered little world. She thought of the newly organized books, the painstakingly cross-referenced log she had been keeping.

She looked up to see Minerva watching her intently, her expression amused, if a bit sad.

"You must think me horrible," Hermione said, knowing her alarm had been evident.

"Of course not. All will be fine, my dear. You'll see." She stood, signaling the end of their interview. "You have been such a bright spot these last few years, Hermione. I hope you know that." To her surprise, Hermione saw tears in the headmistress's eyes.

pp

Madame Pomfrey toured the infirmary that night with Hermione, saying little as she inspected the stores and records. She ran her fingers across the books on the shelf and sniffed. "Well," she said finally. "It appears everything is in order."

"Yes, Poppy," Hermione managed.

The older woman looked at her then, her brow creased. When she spoke, her voice, as usual, was clipped and efficient. "I know you have put a lot of your heart into this infirmary, and that you are used to controlling this space as your own. Believe me, most Healers are very territorial."

"Let's just say I understand now how difficult it must be to take on an apprentice."

"I haven't had an apprentice in twenty-one years."

"I had no idea. Thank you."

Poppy held up her hand. "No, thank you. I hadn't had a sabbatical since I began working at Hogwarts. And I desperately needed one."

"But you returned early – "

"Three months was enough – enough to remind me that I am ill equipped to deal with that modern concept called leisure." She gave gruff laugh. "Now. I have something for you." She reached into her robes and pulled out a small glass box. Hermione took it gingerly. The glass was opaque, absorbing the light of the room such that it seemed to glow.

"Poppy, what –"

"Open it, child."

As she opened it Hermione suddenly knew what it was. But that was impossible! It was a silver pendant in the shape of a staff with a serpent twisted round it – the symbol of Asclēpius, and the mark of the Order of Healers. Poppy wore one around her own neck.

"But I'm not – I won't be finished until April!"

"Minerva and I took the liberty of submitting an application for early completion to the Order of Healers. With your impressive accomplishments here and your aptitude with the Hands of Healing, it was almost a fait accompli. Merlin's beard, I hope those are tears of joy, child!"

To her surprise, Hermione found Poppy's strong arms around her, and her hair being stroked by her mentor's thick, sure fingers. "Shhh!" Poppy commanded. "There is a world outside of Hogwarts. You are only too ready. And do you not think that eight months in Haiti will be better than a mere summer?"

Hermione looked at her through her tears. "Is there anything you don't know?"

"In fact, yes. I do not know whether you've been accepted into Muggle medical school yet."

Hermione looked at her with amazement. "I should find out within the month," she said in an embarrassed voice.

"There, there. I know about as much of the Muggle world as Professor Snape, but I'm not fool enough to believe that it has nothing to offer us." She gave Hermione's shoulder one final squeeze. "After all, it brought us the most powerful young witch we've had in years. Now, explain to me what you've done to my books!"

pp

One key to Hermione's success had always been an ability to compartmentalize. As the girl within mourned the imminent loss of her childhood home, the eager scholar quickly dispatched a letter to Master Bertrand, and meticulously prepared for her departure.

The news had to be broken to Parvati, who took it a little too quietly. Other goodbyes had to be made. The infirmary had to be left in good order. Hermione worked with Poppy into the night, explaining some of the systems she had instituted (most of which would no doubt be dismantled, but one had to try). Hermione wished she had more time to research Haitian magic. Asking Professor Snape about his time there was impossible. She wondered whether he knew she was leaving. He would be relieved, she was sure. It would spare them the series of awkward, if infrequent, encounters that had certainly awaited them.

And in the midst of this flurry of feelings and activity, Harry Potter appeared suddenly at her door late one night as if he had never left.

For a long moment, Hermione only stared. But she was not one to toss aside easily the feelings of affection and duty that had defined her childhood. After a moment of hesitation, she flew into his arms.

"Don't you _ever _run off like that again," she cried.

He chuckled in her ear, and held her close before pulling her to arms' length. He looked at her eyes, then her mouth. Hermione chose that moment to study a very interesting mark on the floor. He released her gently. "I hear you're headed to Haiti," he said softly.

"I am." She raised her eyes to look at him. Unlike Snape's unreadable mask, Harry's face conveyed every emotion at once. She could not begin to parse his expression – nor, she realized, did she want to. "I take it you've resolved your problem?"

"In a fashion. Or I will soon." He glanced around her room. "Done packing?"

"Harry Potter! How can you show up at my door after months of absence, in which you were _pursued_, I might add – don't deny it, I know it's true – and try to – to _chat_ with me? Yes, I've bloody well done my packing. Some things don't change, you know."

He said nothing, but he grabbed her hand. She let him keep it, though it hung rather limp in his grasp.

"I missed you," he said finally.

That was the last straw. "What do you want from me?"

"Friendship?"

"Friendship," she repeated. "Friends don't disappear with no explanation." She paused. "Friends don't lie about matters of importance."

He dropped her hand and said, very quietly, "Who have you been talking to?"

"It doesn't matter."

"You've been talking to Snape." When she didn't say anything, he turned from her and walked to the window. "And you believe him." His voice was resigned.

"Why did you lie to me, Harry? You didn't need to."

His back was still to her. She could tell by the rigidity of his stance that something was about to break. Finally the words came, distant, as if directed to the world outside the window instead of to her. "Keeping silent was already a lie." He turned to face her, tears in his eyes. "And now I'm going to pay for that lie, Hermione."

She felt a lurch of panic. Perhaps, in spite of all, she was still compelled to protect and serve Harry Potter. "What do you mean? What are you going to do?"

He gave her a wry smile. "It seems that my services as the most powerful wizard of the century are in demand." He sat down heavily on the side of her bed.

Hermione sat down beside him, careful to leave space between them. "Go on."

"You know the goblins have come into possession of Machu Picchu."

"Yes, of course. Bill Weasley is there."

Harry looked surprised for a second, but continued on. "Well, the goblins believe there's an ancient Inca storehouse of gold right on site, and they want a powerful wizard to break through the curses."

"Why not Bill? Isn't that what they hired him for?"

"This is elemental magic. Dates back to the goblin wars. There aren't many wizards left alive who are touched by elemental magic and can break through the curses. And fewer still that would consider stooping so low as to help the goblins." He toed the fringe of her rug.

"But you will," Hermione supplied in a monotone.

"I have no choice. Or, rather, I have choices, but they aren't too pleasant. I'm afraid I make a rather poor fugitive. And I'd rather not go to Azkaban."

Hermione shook her head, disbelievingly. "I don't understand."

"Nor will you." He looked at her intently. "I owe Gringott's money, Hermione. Let's just say I – I haven't been myself since the war."

"You left the country because you're in _debt_?" Hermione squeaked. She had spent hours worrying that he had succumbed to dark magic, worrying that he had been lured into the wizarding underworld by the promise of power. That he had squandered his fortune like some profligate had not occurred to her.

"You asked me what I'd done since the war. I've been – celebrating. At first, it was on everyone else, of course. And then, slowly, people expected me to move on, do something else. But what could I do? I'm a casualty of destiny. There's nothing _in _me, Hermione. The minute I tried to do something, everyone would know."

"Know what?"

"That I'm an impostor. That I didn't really kill Voldemort."

"You _did _kill him, Harry," Hermione said weakly. Anything, anything to erase the despair from his eyes.

"I suppose. Technically. Well, no matter. I just hope the goblins will still forgive my debts when they realize I'm not what they thought. Though I suppose it may not matter."

Hermione kept her voice steady in spite of her pounding heart. "What do you mean? Just what are you walking into?"

When he finally spoke, his voice was bitter. "Does it matter?" He reached for her hand, and this time she held his tightly, trying to hold back her tears. Harry gave an empty laugh. "When we were at Hogwarts, whenever I thought of my future, I always assumed I would either be the savior of the world or dead. Or both. I never thought I'd be –" He seemed to be searching for the right words; eventually she realized he had merely abandoned the sentence.

pp

Hermione and Parvati stood facing each other in the chill air, halfway between the gate to the Hogwarts grounds and the castle. It was the point at which they had agreed to say goodbye. "Don't you dare cry. I am achieving the appearance of calm resolve only at great cost."

"I'll write you every day?"

Hermione took a deep breath. _Just say it_. "Wiser to send your letters to Bill Weasley, I think."

Parvati dropped her gaze, and considered the snowy ground. When she looked back at Hermione, her eyes were shining with tears. "I'll write you both." She stepped forward and Hermione conceded the embrace, albeit stiffly. Parvati pulled back slightly and looked at Hermione for a long moment, as tears began to roll down her cheeks. At last, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

Hermione hugged her tightly then. "_I'm_ sorry." She felt Parvati's cheek cold and wet against hers. "I do love you."

"I know you do," Parvati said sadly.

"God, I'll miss you. Visit me?"

"I may." Parvati disengaged herself from their embrace. "I'm going to go back to the castle now. I am glad I won't have to watch you Disapparate. I would hate it." She smiled weakly. "Good-bye, Hermione."

"Good-bye."

They began to walk their separate ways. Hermione turned back several steps later to look at the castle, and at the retreating form of her friend. She sighed loudly just before her eyes lit upon a silhouetted figure standing at a window – the same window from which she and Parvati had first viewed Bill and Snape many months ago. A sharp pang shot through her stomach, vanishing just as the figure retreated into the shadows. She walked toward the gate, her body tingling in the wake of the strange pang until all sensation was drowned in the whirl of Disapparating.

pp


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Bill Weasley woke up from a dream, sweating. It had been raining when he'd lain down to rest. Now the sun was overhead, a diffuse circle of light behind the silk of his tent. He sat up, and attempted to tuck his bangs behind his ears. No luck. Still not long enough.

The tendrils of the dream beckoned. What had it been? He lay his head back down on the ground, squinting. A slight breeze rippled the tent, making the imprint of sunlight dance. He remembered then: the Intihuatana stone. Again.

The stone tugged at his center in the dreams, like some ghostly umbilical cord. The pull was filled with pain and sweetness. In this dream, he had turned away from Parvati – for she was inexplicably there at the citadel, dressed in her school robes, laughing. No, that wasn't it, he had been at Hogwarts, but then he turned from her, toward the stone, and all sense of scale vanished. He could cross oceans. He could stride over mountains. He could draw down the sun with his fist.

The dream ended, as they all did, when he touched his forehead to the stone monolith, the Hitching Post of the Sun.

_I need more sleep_, Bill thought. _I've had four hours, if that._ But his body had never adjusted to Silvermidge's nocturnal schedule. No matter how much curse-breaking took out of him, he never could sleep through the night – or day, as it were. He threw on his jeans and T-shirt, and crawled from the tent. Tenderly, he stretched his body, taking inventory of his injuries. It was true that he was daily increasing his knowledge of Inca curses; he doubted anyone in the world knew more. Yet those infuriating Inca magicians of old still bewildered him with their combinations of curses, the patterns of which consistently eluded him. No logic to those curse cocktails. None at all.

And so he still was blindsided by the unexpected. He had little energy left after long days of curse-breaking to tend to his injuries. He felt scalded, inside and out. And all for what? A few artifacts, a couple pounds of gold. Didn't these goblins have bigger fish to fry? This job was slowly killing him. If his mum knew, she'd have him back at the Burrow for three weeks of bed rest and care.

_So why don't you leave?_ asked the voice of reason in his head, one that often took on the tones of one Molly Weasley (or sometimes Hermione Granger). _You've signed no contract. You've given them their money's worth. Let them find someone else, maybe someone who gets a little thrill out of scarifying the flesh. _

Yes, why not leave? Take a detour to the Caribbean for some much needed rest. Surely there was a wizard spa on Barbados that could piece him back together, wipe him clean from the abrasions and marks that were the curse of his trade, so to speak. Maybe he'd permit himself a hair growth potion. Then he'd return to Hogwarts and…

… and what? Sweep Parvati into his arms? Beg Minerva for his job back? Trail after Snape on his errands? Even if these things were possible (and only the latter had odds at all in his favor), he wasn't prepared to retreat somehow.

There was something the goblins weren't telling him. He knew it in his aching bones. And the Arthur Weasley in him – obsessively curious over the forbidden, the exotic, the unexplainable – would not leave until he'd solved the mystery.

In the meantime, he knew it would be a few hours before he could return to sleep. He Apparated to his spot off the trail that led up to the citadel, and walked out of the woods, startling a young couple – American, by the looks of them. "Call of nature," he said. The girl giggled, and he bestowed on her his Devilishly Handsome Grin before striding ahead of them. Wouldn't hurt to have another look at that stone in the daylight, would it?

When he arrived at Machu Picchu, the sun was straight overhead and the walls cast no shadows. He meandered his way around the tourists, making his way toward the Intihuatana stone. Yet when he arrived, a man stood in his path, perfectly still, studying the stone. A wave of possessiveness swept over him as the man slowly walked to the other side of the stone, his eyes never leaving it. Bill frowned. Something about his movements was familiar.

Their eyes met. It was Harry Potter.

They stared at each other for several long moments, the Intihuatana stone between them.

"Well?" prompted a very curious Bill.

Harry glanced at Bill. "Well what?"

"I'm assuming you're not here on holiday."

"No," said Harry. A Muggle tourist approached, half of his face obscured by a video camera. Bill was used to these Muggle Penseives, but Harry eyed it curiously."Bet your father would have loved to get his hands on that," he said quietly. "Can we go somewhere less – public?"

Bill walked over to a jagged platform of clean gray rock next to a steep dropoff. He gestured to it. "Unless you want to go back to my camp." Harry shook his head. They both sat down, their movements oddly synchronized.

Bill regarded Harry. The boy – man now, he supposed – had always confused him. Bill had always felt toward him a kind of condescending protectiveness; Bill was the older brother of his best friend, after all. Yet he was also Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World. Bill never knew whether to be in awe of him or pat him on the head and send him off to play Exploding Snap.

"What do you know about the stone?" Harry asked.

Bill recognized the stall, but permitted it. "A bit. Inca Hitching Post of the Sun. Those who touch their foreheads to the stone have their eyes opened to the spirit world. At least, that's what the Muggles say. Look at it. You can see from here the shiny ring around the base from all the foreheads that have made the attempt. That includes mine, by the way."

"And did you? See any spirits?" Harry asked lightly.

"No. Of course, I am seeing the Boy Who Lived, returned from a mysterious absence."

"The goblins," Harry said, as if answering a question Bill had asked. "I'm here at their request. They want me to unlock the stone."

Case in point for Bill's conflicting feelings regarding Harry Potter: Should he be honored to have him at his site, or irritated? "Unlock the stone?"

"It conceals a storehouse of Inca gold. At least, the goblins think it does."

Bill balked at this. "Then why have they been wasting my talents with second-rate burial sites all this time?"

Harry shrugged. "It's an ancient magic that seals the stone. The goblins believe only a powerful wizard touched by elemental magic can break it."

"And that's you."

Harry gave a dismissive gesture. "They think so, anyway."

"Do they know you're here?"

"They expect me tonight. I arrived early to –"

"Scope out the place."

"If you like." Harry's gaze returned to the stone, and Bill felt his own follow suit. They stared jointly at it for a while. "Maybe you can show me around?"

Bill yawned. "Maybe tomorrow?"

Harry laughed weakly. "Tomorrow will be too late. Tomorrow I begin to unlock the stone."

pp

It was several days before Hermione recovered from her trans-Atlantic Apparation to Haiti. Though Master Bertrand's potions eased her nausea, a persistent fatigue incapacitated her. Then, abruptly on her fifth day, she woke with a clear head and a feeling of being decisively herself. She took a moment to revel in the joy of being alive and in health. Then she noticed the subtleties of her surroundings: the warm smells of newly baked earth; outside her window, a haze of sky sitting upon the steep hillside. Her stomach fluttered with excitement. She was really here.

She rose from her modest cot, stretched, threw on her clothes and work robes. There was no mirror, which was probably just as well. She tied her hair back, cast a quick cleansing spell, and stepped into the next room, ducking her head under the beam of the doorway.

"Miss Granger," said a youthful voice. "I see you are alive. I was beginning to wonder." Hermione, a bit shocked to hear her native tongue, turned to face the source of the voice. "I am Marlene," said the girl sitting on the table, her legs swinging like a child's, though she couldn't be too many years younger than Hermione herself. Marlene extended her hand, grinning, and Hermione took it.

"You must be Master Bertrand's daughter."

"Papa did say you are the smart one." Marlene grinned again. There was something wicked in that flash of perfect teeth, a certain Fred-and-George-ishness that Hermione instinctively recognized and was wary of. "Wednesdays Papa goes to the market in Cap Haitian. I was told to give you the show-around if you wake up," said Marlene, springing down from the table with a grace that made her guest stare in admiration. As if reading Hermione's mind, she said, "Father says I am half cat." She walked out the doorway into the hot of the morning sun, calling over her shoulder, "Follow me, Miss Granger. Breakfast."

At the word breakfast, Hermione was instantly ravenous. She trailed after her young hostess. The sun was already high and hot, the once damp ground crusted over by the heat, the rain in the night having long since burned off. Hermione followed after Marlene, who hummed quietly to herself; occasionally, the hum transformed itself into words, though Hermione could not understand them.

Marlene and Jean Gérard Bertrand's compound contained an impressive fruit tree grove. A rough-hewn table sat near its edge with a platter of fresh-cut fruit, along with a bowl of goat stew and fried plantains. They sat and tore in. It was cooler under the canopy of leaves.

After she had eaten her fill, Hermione looked around. "This is paradise," she sighed.

"Haiti Fleuri," said Marlene. At Hermione's quizzical look, she explained, "Our compound is an oasis; very few trees remain standing in my country. But all of Haiti looked like this long ago: Haiti Fleuri."

"What happened?"

Marlene shrugged. "The French wanted the Mahogany. The Haitians need charcoal. I do not blame them. They must eat. Come, I will show you something." Hermione followed her through an iron gate in a thick wall covered with vines. Hermione took in her breath. On the other side was a bare mountainous landscape dotted with only few trees and a light dusting of green. Large crevices with the slight regularities of quarrying scarred the mountain side. "Turn around and look." Hermione did so, and saw no wall, but what appeared to be a makeshift fence of cactus, barbed wire, and dry brush.

"It is impenetrable," said Marlene. "Warded, too, by my father." Hermione felt a powerful, forbidding magic emanating from the wall; Muggles would feel only a vague unease, and not desire to investigate further.

"How do we –"

But Marlene was contemplating a rust-colored bird perched atop where the gate had been. "Haiti Fleuri," she whispered to it. The bird slowly opened its beak, unnaturally wide, until it seemed to split itself open, and pour itself into the shape of the same gate they had exited before.

"That is the password," said Marlene. "Now you may come and go as you will. Just say the word to the guardian."

"Like Dumbledore's gargoyle," Hermione mused. No matter that Minerva was now Headmistress; it would always be Dumbledore's in Hermione's mind, even with the Latin passwords Minerva preferred.

Marlene's tour lasted into the afternoon: there was much to see. Master Bertrand's potions room was in a one-room wattle-and-daub house several steps from the main house in which Hermione had spent her recovery. It was clean and spare and felt, unlike the cold stoniness of Professor Snape's laboratory, warm and earthen.

"You will spend enough time in here, I think," said Marlene. "Come with me to the garden." She led Hermione up a small path that snaked into the coolness of the groves. The grade soon became steep and Hermione felt herself winded with the altitude. Ahead of her, Marlene hummed her song. "Not too far now," Marlene called back.

Abruptly, the forests ended, opening up into a large terraced garden built into the hillside, each terrace brimming with herbs, many of which Hermione recognized, but some of which would seem more at home under the sea or on the moon. "This is the garden," Marlene said, reverently. "Is it not fantastic?" Hermione nodded, looking around. "The professor added the third terrace in his last year here. The plants there are very rare. It has saved my father much trouble."

The unlikely image of her former professor on his hands and knees in the dirt, the sleeves of his black linen shirt rolled up, flashed before her.

"Why do you smile?" asked Marlene. "What amuses you?"

"I am trying to imagine Professor Snape gardening. It is difficult."

"Why?" asked Marlene. Hermione looked at her; her face lacked any of the impishness of before. Her look was merely quizzical.

"I don't know," said Hermione. "Professor Snape, green growing things… it's just not a combination I envisioned. This is a man who enjoys cutting things up and boiling them in pots, after all. In a cold dungeon, I might add."

Marlene plucked a purple-veined leaf of a plant Hermione did not recognize, and ran it between her thumb and forefinger as Augustus had done in Withershins – a lifetime ago, it seemed. "It is true he did not like the garden at first. He does not like the sun. But the peace of the garden called to him. That's what Papa says. The professor spent almost as much time out here as he did in the laboratory." Marlene giggled then. "He insisted staying that deathly white, though. He used a potion of his own brewing to block out the sun – just like the American tourists. The _karé _villagers call him the _angle fantom_ – English Ghost. Would you believe they were all rather afraid of him?"

Hermione snorted. "Oh, I believe you. He can be quite terrifying."

That quizzical look again. "But the professor is such a gentle man."

"Gentle," Hermione repeated, barely containing her laughter. "Yes, I'm sure that is the first word that his former students would apply to him." But the sarcasm seemed not to translate; Marlene began to hum once more, as if reassured that Severus Snape was indeed the man she imagined. Who was Hermione to disillusion her?

It was a beautiful garden, anyway. The sun was hot, but there was a brisk breeze from the north. Hermione walked through the narrow paths that snaked their way through the flowering herbs. The terrace was high enough that she could see another mountain range far in the distance, this one dusted with more green at the top.

"The Cloud Forest," Marlene said, following her gaze. "It is farther away than it appears. Papa goes there in the late spring each year. There are plants there that do not exist anywhere on earth. You'll join him this year, I expect."

pp

Master Bertrand returned, and her training began. Though a slight man, her mentor possessed a grace that bespoke a quiet power. It was mesmerizing to watch him mix potions. How could Hermione describe it? There was rhythm in his movements. Each potion was a story or a song. That's what she wrote to Parvati, but that wasn't quite it, either. It was an art beyond words, after all.

He was silent most of the time, his face a peaceful mask that made his sudden expressiveness almost alarming. Marlene said he never scolded her. He didn't need to. His frowns could persuade mountains to move.

Hermione was beginning to understand what Marlene meant, for she was the recipient of one such frown right now, and it was by no means the first. "What is in your mind right now?" Bertrand asked, as she stirred her potion.

"Stir clockwise, 35 times, wand angled inward," Hermione recited.

"I see."

Those two words seemed to hold more disappointment than any diatribe Snape had ever leveled at her.

"Is that wrong?"

"No, _pitit mwen_," Bertrand sighed, "it is precisely right." He said no more, watching her complete her Pepper Up potion. It turned out perfectly, by Hogwarts standards, Hermione knew. But it did not match the clear liquid-filled vials Bertrand had mixed himself. Bertrand took it from her, and nodded once at her. It was her cue to leave, and she did so, her heart heavy.

pp

It would surprise no one to learn that Hermione had a nearly photographic memory. She could often recall full paragraphs of text by simply envisioning them on the page in her mind. Her parents had shown off the skill to friends and relatives when she was a child. At some point, for reasons at the time unknown to her, a great switch had been thrown and she was expected to hide her skill rather than display it. She resisted at first, then relented, but never surrendered the fierce pride she had in her ability. Not to mention, it had served her very well. That is, until now.

Being Hermione Granger, she had prepared for her apprenticeship by studying up on her subject. She knew one learned Haitian potion-making by ritual, not recipe. Spells were never written down, for words placed the magic outside of oneself, diluting it. The brewer needed instead to, as she performed the ritual, open herself to _Les Morts et les Mysteres_, that great reservoir of spirit energy, that pool of souls, and allow it to infuse the potion through her.

She knew all this, and yet it did little good. Time passed, and though she learned the ritual for each potion easily enough, no matter how Master Bertrand coached her, the spells' words refused to cast of the husks of their written form; the letters marched across her mind. It was distressing. It was infuriating. How could one unlearn something ingrained since the earliest childhood? It was impossible! What had Snape said in the British Library Reading Room that day? Writing was a "weakness, a dependence" – "an uncomfortable position for bookish people like ourselves." And yet Snape, most irritatingly, had found a way to brew Haitian potions, and she had not.

pp

She found Bertrand later in the garden preparing tinctures on the small stone work table. He stepped slightly toward one end of the table in acknowledgement of her presence, and after watching him for a moment, she joined him in his labors. They worked side by side silently until all the sage _flanm_ was stemmed and crushed into paste. Hermione performed her task with perhaps slightly more vigor than necessary. Bertrand said after a time, "We say in Haiti: a stumble is not a fall."

"Mmmm," Hermione said, noncommittally, hoping that was enough to satisfy him.

"The professor, he stumbled many times. Stumbling is sometimes the only way to learn the lay of the land. I do not think he is stronger than you. Just more patient."

"Patient," Hermione repeated.

"There are no house points here. We compete against no one; there is nothing to compete for. There is no hurry; no destination. Beyond the mountain is another mountain."

When their task was complete, Bertrand nodded to her. Though the nod was to all appearances identical to her dismissal earlier, Hermione sensed this one held a gentle approval.

pp

"It is the way of things here," Marlene was saying, "which is why a Haitian seldom makes formal appointments. Something is always breaking." Hermione was to have accompanied Marlene's father on his spring trip to the Cloud Forest to hunt for potion ingredients. Instead, Bertrand was in Port- à-Piment lending his arts toward the village well which had suddenly begun spewing brownish water as if cursed, which it very well might have been. The line between Muggles and the wizard world was murky at best in Haiti; curses were fairly commonplace.

Hermione's disappointment, she knew, was illogical. She'd begun however to see their trek to the Cloud Forest as a pilgrimage of sorts that might – who knows – effect some transformation. She needed some kind of spiritual infusion, that was sure, for while Bertrand remained infinitely patient and even affectionate toward her, her progress remained static.

She escaped to the garden, understanding now the peace that Marlene had said pulled Snape there, as unlikely as it had sounded at the time. She busied herself with his terraced addition, and hadn't been working long when she raised her head to see the garden's creator himself approaching.

He had stripped to but a thin linen shirt that he was busy rolling up at the sleeves as he strode purposefully toward the garden. His eyes lit on her, and he froze. "In the name of all the gods at once, _what are you doing here_?"

He said no more after this uncharacteristic outburst, nor did he move. Occasionally he blinked. Ridiculous behavior, really, she thought, until she realized she was still on her hands and knees, similarly frozen. So she raised herself, dusted the dirt from her person, noting with dismay the grime in the grooves of her skin, under her nails. No matter. A response was in order. "I – I clearly am _gardening_, Professor." His face seemed not to register her words, so she prodded further. "You are no stranger to the art, I've been told."

More silence, of the interminable, Snapian variety that made the blood hum in her ears.

"Professor!" she called sharply.

"Miss Granger," he replied automatically. It seemed to calm him, the formal exchange, for he continued on. "Good afternoon." He nodded toward her, and pressed on in his best classroom tones. "I am indeed familiar with gardening; I created the very section to which you now lend your efforts – efforts, I should add, that make my presence here unnecessary. I shan't distract you further." He turned, and strode away.

She stared after him, burning with questions. What was he doing here? He hadn't expected to see her, that was sure. She resisted the urge to trot after him and demand an explanation. That wouldn't do, no. She was hardly presentable, covered with perspiration and a dusting of earth. He wouldn't simply leave now that he knew she was here. Would he?

pp

Notes:

1. My descriptions of the Bertrand compound were adapted from Madison Smartt Bell's article "Mine of stones: with and without the spirits along the Cordon de l'Ouest – Letter From Haiti," published in Harper's Magazine, Jan., 2004. The oasis in the article is of the non-magical variety and all the more admirable therefore.

2. I'd like to warmly thank everyone who has given me encouragement over the months (er… years) via reviews and emails. I have never intended to abandon this story, but it was nonetheless inspiring to know that many people wanted me to continue. I hope to add Chapter 11 either tonight or tomorrow.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

A few cleansing spells and some deep breaths after the professor made his abrupt exit, Hermione made her slow progress down the hillside into the coolness of the grove. She told herself the swift beating of her heart was due to the exercise.

There was no sign of him in the house. Had her presence in the garden so disturbed him? Of course, her very existence was now an embarrassment to him. She shouldn't forget that.

Then he rounded the corner, now fully outfitted in waistcoat and robes. His face was set, one could say almost grim, and he was walking straight toward her.

"Miss Granger," he said, and, once he had reached a comfortable distance, bowed slightly. "I apologize for my behavior a moment ago. I was taken off guard. I fully expected you to be accompanying Master Bertrand on his spring excursion to the Cloud Forest."

"Er, yes, well, we postponed our trip by a few weeks. Master Bertrand was needed in the village – emergency decontamination of the water supply. He is 'blessing' the well. It's a complicated spell; it will take him several –"

"I am familiar with the spell." The brusque, agitated interruption was familiar enough. But then, to her surprise, he continued in more conversational tones. "I've only just arrived myself." He took a half step toward her, then stopped. "I am here to stock up on supplies unique to this area."

"Oh. But surely you did not just Apparate from Hogwarts?"

"London, actually." She looked at him with a bit of awe. He seemed to read her mind. "I do not suffer from Apparation sickness. Nor did my father. It is one of the few positive things I inherited from him." Hermione's eyes widened further at the volunteered personal detail. It was a relief somehow when Snape added, familiar smirk in place, "Augustus is generally laid up for at least half a week. That might explain why he never visited me here."

"I was out for six days," she admitted.

"That is quite acceptable for a first trans-Atlantic Apparation." Hermione raised an eyebrow. "All right, it is embarrassingly sub-par."

"Thank you. I was beginning to suspect an imposter."

"I have just spent a week in the company of my brother and all his simpering acquaintances, observing a stomach-turning amount of good will. Perhaps some of it rubbed off?"

"Doubtful," said Hermione.

"Indeed." He stood watching her for a moment, as if uncertain, then gestured past her, toward the gates. "As my garden seems to be in good hands, I had thought to take a walk around, reacquaint myself with the area."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Of course." She stepped aside to give him passage.

He made no move, but continued to study her. Finally, he said, "Miss Granger? That was an invitation."

She blinked. Perhaps this was the island of miracles after all. It appeared the professor was attempting some approximation of social overture, however erringly. "A simple 'Would you care to join me?' might have made that clearer."

He closed the gap between them. "You, of all people, know I have no skill in verbal niceties. But is this overt enough?" He held out his arm. She hesitated, then took it. She realized they had not touched since the night he had kissed her hand before announcing his intended courtship. Judging by his averted eyes and sudden stiffness, his thoughts were similarly employed. He cleared his throat. "This way, I think."

They walked in silence. If she had ever felt more self-conscious, she could not remember it. Her body threatened to stumble at every step, an impulse akin to that urge some feel to hurl themselves off cliffs into the depths. She gripped his arm against the impulse. _Talk_, she told herself. _Begin a conversation_. But there seemed a ban on all topics.

"You will be interested to hear, Miss Granger," Snape said at last, "that I witnessed the successful betrothal of my brother."

"At Withershins." He inclined his head. Just saying the name made her long for the garden. She asked, a bit wistful, "Was it lovely?"

From the stiffening of his body, she knew she had erred. "Oh _yes_! _Lovely _to watch my brother commit his life to a loveless marriage, and thereby follow in our parents' footsteps. _Lovely_ to see him surrender to a fate that should have been mine as the eldest son."

She released his arm. "I'm sorry. I spoke without thinking."

He stopped. "No." He took her hand and neatly drew her arm back into the crook of his own. "I should not have brought it up as a topic for idle conversation were I not prepared to treat it so." They reached the fork in the path, and he pulled her gently with him toward the village. After a time, he said, "I do not think I am ignorant of the workings of a normal conversation – it appears I just lack the temperament for one."

Hermione gave an amused sniff.

"You laugh at my shortcomings."

"I laugh at how you so confidently profess your temperament, and thereby give yourself a reprieve from ever changing. 'I am this way because it is my temperament.' It's circular reasoning."

"I do not need lessons in logic from a Healer," he said, amused.

"I am advising you in a non-professional capacity."

They had walked around the fruit groves for some time, and now approached the gate. Through it they stepped, and the air became hotter still. The professor tugged her along with him, seeming intent on the long walk to the village. He kept silent for some time; Hermione began to wonder why she'd agreed to this adventure, and why he'd asked her along.

Many paces later, Snape, to Hermione's surprise, again began a conversation. Unfortunately, the subject was not one Hermione was eager to discuss. "How you are progressing in your studies with Master Bertrand?"

"Oh, fine, I think," she said dismissively, and then gestured up ahead at two slim figures approaching, baskets balanced on their heads. "Looks like the market day is at an end."

Snape looked up at the two young girls, and then stole a sidelong glance at Hermione. "Come, it's not that bad, is it?"

"What's not that bad?"

"Your studies, of course."

The girls passed by them then, and Snape greeted them in Creole, which they heartily returned, neither bothering to conceal their stares at his tall, pale form. They clearly recognized him, but shyly hurried past, giggling softly.

When the girls' steps were but faint scratches of gravel, Hermione let out a sigh. "What gave me away?"

"Had things been going well, I expect your response would have been slightly more – effusive."

Hermione laughed. "You mean I would have inflicted on you a showy disquisition."

"I like to think more of an inspired panegyric."

Hermione met his gaze. "Perhaps the past week has worn on you. That was a euphemism worthy of your brother."

"You wound me to the quick, Miss Granger. I mean what I say."

Perhaps it was the hot sun or fatigue from the day's work in the garden. Perhaps it was the surprising fact that the professor's last words, accompanied as they were with a slight ironic bow, were almost – charming. Or maybe it was merely the knowledge that Master Bertrand would probably tell him anyway. Whatever the case, the flood gates opened; Hermione at last gave voice to her frustrations of the past several weeks – and to a man that had always, even in his ludicrous romantic proposition to her, sought to criticize her.

We might also blame the hot sun for the professor's quiet attendance upon her words, and some stirrings of compassion in his heart.

pp

The next day, over breakfast, the professor, once again, began the conversation, and in a most surprising fashion, considering his purported feelings on the subject. "Tell me, Miss Granger, about the Hands of Healing."

Hermione glanced at him warily. "That 'accidental skill' of mine, as someone once called it."

"The same," Snape said. "And try to relax that irritatingly precise memory of yours some for both our sakes."

"I'll try." Hermione tried to match his light tone, but there was no mistaking one interpretation of his remark: Snape intended to put their awkward past behind them, however impossible a task it might seem. Very well. She would also make the attempt. "I'm not sure," she ventured, "how to explain it to someone who hasn't experienced it. When I touch someone who's injured, if I am open to it, it's as if their cells communicate to me."

"Cells?"

"Their flesh, I guess wizards would say. It speaks to me, in a fashion. And I tell it how to mend."

"Without words," Snape said.

"Yes, of course," Hermione replied, "And I've wondered exactly what you're implying. Why can I perform the Hands and fail miserably at Haitian potionry? Why does the one come so naturally to me and the other seem like swimming against the most powerful current?"

"And?"

"The simplest explanation is that I never _learned_ how to heal with my hands. I never studied it. It just – I don't know – descended upon me. It's not even like it's _mine_, you understand. I just – er – participate in some knowledge beyond myself."

"But spells you feel you own."

Hermione stared out at the landscape for a long time. "I suppose I do. I learn them and I own them, forever. They're mine."

"It is difficult to relinquish control. Yet, oddly enough, it is only by relinquishing control that we can be truly powerful. It's just that the power isn't ours – we only borrow it on this plane, or it borrows us, if you will. Studying Haitian potionry has taught me that. To own the magic completely – well, that's what Voldemort wanted, isn't it?"

They lapsed into silence again, but Hermione felt comfortable in it now. "Isn't it strange," Hermione said finally, "that we can now speak that name and feel nothing?"

"I must say I can only envy you in that. This –" he rolled up his sleeve "– is still searching for its absent master. And I suppose will never cease."

Before she could check herself, Hermione touched the dark mark lightly with her fingers. The wrongness of that patch of flesh immediately seized her – seemed to call out for her to right it. She pulled away abruptly, slightly out of breath and dazed. Snape looked at her – she would have said accusingly had there not been an element of hurt there as well. "Professor –"

"Miss Granger, it is quite late. I will see you tomorrow, then." He was gone before she could speak another word.

pp

Hermione paced the garden that evening, her mind full. Mostly she thought of Haitian potionry and Snape's words about ownership and control. She thought of her own fierce pride in her memory and her abilities. She thought of Snape's dark mark – an external symbol of an attempt at complete control that folded back to control the attempter. Perhaps they had more in common than she'd thought.

But he was so prickly, so quick to upset, to bristle at any censor. He no doubt was sulking in the lab after her perceived slight. No sooner had she thought this than she heard the quiet padding of feet up the path, and smiled to herself. But when she turned to look, it was Marlene.

"You English are a funny lot."

"Mmmm?" Hermione said.

"There is a celebration for the professor's arrival back at the house. He wanted to avoid it, I think. Sneak in while we were gone, take his plants and go. If I did not know better, I would think he did not love us."

"Oh," said Hermione. "He does. He's just not very – demonstrative. He is just a very confused and confusing man. He's – oh, I don't know what he is! He is a hundred things at once. He is a singularly infuriating man."

Marlene chuckled softly. "I said _if_ I did not know better. I do. The professor does not confuse me. He just makes me laugh."

"Well," Hermione said. "I'm sure he would be delighted to hear it. He so loves to be a source of amusement for others."

"Maybe you are not in the right mind for celebration right now," Marlene said. "That is no problem, of course." She turned to go, but said over her shoulder, "Papa says when the character of a man is not clear to you, look at his friends."

So Hermione did: Marlene's father; Marlene herself; Bill Weasley; Augustus, his brother. Dumbledore had trusted him. True, Minerva did not, but that was partly Harry's fault. And her own.

She still felt unreasonably peevish, but after a suitable time of sulking herself, and thinking, she did wend her way down the path.

The celebration, as Marlene had called it, had apparently been rather modest by Haitian standards, probably in deference to the reclusive tendencies of the professor. But several locals remained. Some Mardi Gras music drifted through the air from some mysterious source, no doubt magical, Hermione could feel it. It occurred to her then that these locals were not Magical. The Ministry would swoop down on such an infraction in England, no doubt, Obliviating left and right. Not so here.

"There is a saying in Haiti."

She turned toward the voice. "I'm beginning to see that there are an inexhaustible number of sayings in Haiti, Professor."

"You will submit to my recitation, Miss Granger, as I have submitted to countless ones myself. It is our punishment as outsiders."

"Proceed."

"The saying is Haiti is 80 Catholic, and 100 Vaudou. No Ministry of Magic, no divorce of Muggle and Magical. It is what I imagine we once were, before the Enlightenment."

"I'm not sure how I feel about it."

"Nor I."

Hermione nodded toward Marlene, who was dancing with a local boy. "Perhaps one has to have grown up here to feel truly comfortable in all worlds at once."

"Of course, she is a remarkable girl."

"She's quite fond of you, you know."

"Her picture of me is incomplete."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop wallowing."

"I am not wallowing."

"She _likes_ you. You _like _her. Can't it be that simple?"

"It is never that simple," he said. "But I admit to a mutual fondness between us." He turned his dark eyes upon her. "Does that please you, Miss Granger?"

"Yes," she said, returning his gaze, suddenly feeling as though she were answering a different question altogether, though she wasn't yet sure what it was.

pp

The next afternoon, she found herself lost in thought, staring out over the terrace at the Cloud Forest. She felt his presence when he joined her, though she did not turn to face him. She was not ready to look at him, but she smiled.

He stood at her side a generous step away, so it was a surprise when he reached for her. With excruciating slowness, he swept her hair from her shoulder, and rested his hand lightly on the bare skin of her neck. She did not move, but felt all of her nerves surge toward and away from that single, still point of contact.

They stood for some time. She knew he was studying her profile intently. At last she felt the slight, almost imperceptible flexing of his hand; the tips of his fingers caressed her neck. She closed her eyes.

"Miss Granger?" His voice was low and full of questions.

She turned to face him, to respond to him, but her words seized in her throat when their eyes met. His look pinned her where she stood.

She finally found her voice. "Professor."

"I am – that is to say – this is not – " Words fell away. With the hand that still rested on her neck, he pulled her toward him.

An owl chose that moment to swoop down from the sky, and insinuate a scroll between them.

They both stared at it as if they had never received correspondence in their lives. Hermione shook herself, and grasped it. "It's from Bill," she said, breaking the seal. She scanned the letter, her expression quickly changing from curiosity to horrified panic. Snape's concern for his friend, for her, not to mention his agitation at the interruption threatened to consume him, but with practiced patience, he waited for her to finish. "Oh dear God," she said. "I – I must go to him."

"What is it? What has Weasley managed to get himself into?"

Hermione looked up at him, tears starting to form.

"Miss Granger, I demand you tell me." He grabbed her hand. "Please. Don't keep me in suspense. You know my affection for the boy."

"It's not Bill, Professor," she said. "It's Harry. I must go to him. Please understand." She pulled away from him and fled back to the house. Professor Snape watched after her, his hand that had briefly held hers still slightly open as if in supplication.

pp


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

He found her in the guest room preparing for her departure. He finally spoke, somewhat coldly. "You will get Apparation sickness."

Hermione tossed a few items into her bag. "Yes, which makes time even more of the essence."

"You'll be rendered useless for days. Your precious Potter may well perish before you can even administer to him!" Hermione paused for just a moment, then continued packing furiously. "Do you really want to be helpless in a den of goblins? Think rationally for a moment."

"I will do this, Professor. I cannot just desert Harry. I know what you think of him, but –"

"Miss Granger – it is beyond my capacity at the moment to even attempt to disillusion you. Will you, however, let me at least be concerned for your safety? Let me Apparate with you so I can stem off some of the magical imbalance."

She finally looked up at him. "That is – kind of you. I will also need an augmenting potion – one of your devising, as mine will not suffice." She handed him Bill's letter. "This will explain all."

He nodded once and left her.

The despair she felt at his expression as he walked out the door she dared not examine. She had no time.

So the fates were not done with him. He would save Potter – again. A storybook ending unfolded clearly in his imagination and it did not include him. No matter, he told himself. He had not come to Haiti looking for Hermione. He truly had assumed she would be away. He would help her Apparate, see to it that Weasley was truly attuned to the danger that surrounded them, and head back home. To Hogwarts, he imagined. With Augustus settled in France for the foreseeable future, had he any other home to return to?

All the ingredients were on hand, and Snape surrendered to the brewing ritual. It did not take long – an hour at most – but when he had finished, and slowly returned to himself, he felt somewhat steadied. He stoppered the potion, revisiting the current situation with more logic than his emotions had permitted before. As the potion cooled, sealing the vial, he perused Bill's missive.

He knew a bit about the Inca from Bill's letters, a bit about the multiple curses Bill had been battling. It appeared Potter had been no match for those, even being "touched by elemental magic." That he was still alive Bill assumed only from an occasional, slight intake of breath and the faintest pulse of the heart.

Snape knew instantly what Hermione intended: to heal Potter, as she had healed Parvati so many moons ago when she had been accidentally hexed by Weasley's students. He'd vehemently protested Hermione's exploring whatever had been unleashed when she had taken his potion and used the Hands of Healing. He shook his head. He would not stop her now – he had no right.

Still, he was troubled. Undoing a mess of misdirected fifth-year curses was a task of a different order than untangling the knotted puzzles of the ancient Inca magicians. There was also the fact of the goblins themselves. He shared with Augustus a general distrust of the workings at Machu Picchu. Young wizards discounted goblins as unpleasant, perhaps unsettling, but ultimately inert – and, of course, useful. Young wizards didn't know their history. He would never trust the goblins.

But he was well aware that any questioning on his part would look like jealousy, or a lack of confidence in Hermione's ability, or both. He was also aware that she would not listen to him anyway, Gryffindor that she was, not when her friend was in trouble. No, it was better to be on hand, unobtrusively – he smiled in grim amusement – just as he had been in Tom Riddle's cottage. That had gone so well for all involved.

Well. Once more into the breach. He grabbed the stoppered vial and a few other potions that caught his eye and went to Hermione.

pp

The goblin Silvermidge paced around Potter's body. It was off-putting, disrespectful, but Bill hadn't the wherewithal to protest at the moment.

He felt unaccountably guilty.

But what could he have done? Potter had been dead-set on proceeding. The goblins had seemed wholly convinced that this was Potter's destiny, or whatever. Bill had knew that nothing good would come of it. Potter had given him a weak smile, then nodded grimly at Silvermidge, whose answering grimace had been the goblin-equivalent of grinning ear to ear. Bill had felt so ill that he could barely stand; he held his wand impotently with one hand, the other hand hanging limply at his side.

Then Harry had done it, placed his forehead to the stone. Bill half-expected sparks, or a thundercrack, or maybe even that Harry's body would fly back and into the chasm behind him. But the Savior of the Wizarding World had ßmerely collapsed, as if all the bones in his body had suddenly been liquefied. He had seemingly met his end in silence and without ceremony; it stirred Bill more than if he'd been consumed in a dramatic burst of magical fire. He had rushed to Harry's side, of course, and soon discovered he was still alive, though barely.

"You're sure she will come, your friend?" Silvermidge asked.

"Yes," Bill snapped. "For the third time, yes."

"And she has the power to heal him?"

"I don't know! She will try, that's all I can promise."

Silvermidge's sidekick, Trowel, appeared suddenly at his elbow. Damn that Blinking trick. He still hated it. "The boy is critical to us, William Weasley. He must not die."

"Oh," said Bill. "Oh, I see. I guess I'll be sure not to let him die then since you need him to get your bloody riches. Yes, thanks for that." _This is it,_ Bill thought. _If Harry comes out of this alive, I don't care what mysteries this place holds. I'm done. I'm going home – wherever that is._

Then, as sometimes happens in times of crisis, Bill felt a calm clarity descend upon him; his thoughts seemed to go straight to the quick of things, and he knew beyond a doubt that, should Harry die, his brother Ron, no matter how estranged from his childhood friend, would never recover and would never forgive him.

"Where are you, Hermione?" he muttered, silently cursing whatever force repeatedly cast him in the role of waiting and hand-wringing.

pp

She wasn't sure how he did it, but the professor was as good as his promise. She felt queasy and disoriented after Apparating, but not completely debilitated. She lowered herself onto one knee for a moment, steadying herself against the ground.

First, she noticed that the climate was not so different from Haiti's – a bit cooler, a bit wetter perhaps, but the same tropical smells, the same promise of lushness. Second, she became aware of the professor's shoes, which she gradually realized were attached to his legs, and the rest of him as well.

"I will be recovered presently," she assured him.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"You must tell me someday how you did that."

He did not answer. Soon she rose. They left the designated Apparating point, following signs toward the trailhead.

"You!" They turned to see a ranger puffing toward them. "Forbidden to tourists today! Mudslides on the trail today!"

Snape raised his wand without hesitation. "Obliviate." As the Muggle stood, stunned, he ushered Hermione into the dark of the jungle path.

"Mudslides. How tremendously convenient for the goblins," Hermione said.

"He was bribed, of course."

It was an obvious fact to any Slytherin worth his salt, but not to a Gryffindor beset with every emotion at once. What awaited her at the mountaintop? What thoughts occupied the dark companion at her side, who suddenly seemed transformed into the efficient wartime spy that she knew he had been, though she had somehow forgotten in the preceding days?

The first thing she saw when she exited the final switchback was Bill Weasley arguing with a goblin. It was windy on the peak, and the words fell away before they reached her, but she could feel the anger emanating from Bill from where she stood. She hadn't known he had it in him.

He looked up and saw her. The look of relief on his face immediately transfigured into a stone in the pit of her stomach. His faith in her was painful to behold. There was a reason, perhaps, why she had kept to the background during and after the war. The hero's crown was not one she coveted. There were times when Hermione wondered if she had been missorted.

"Time, Miss Granger," Snape said at her side. "There is no second-guessing now."

He was right, of course. She ran toward Bill.

"Where is he?"

Bill gestured gravely toward a tent near the center of the citadel between two low ruined walls. "It's been about eight hours," he said as they hurried toward it. "His condition seems unchanged. At least it's not any worse."

Hermione nodded. "The tent?"

"Transfigured it from some grass and leaves. It's not very good, I'm afraid."

"It'll do."

"You have the potion?"

"The professor made it for me." Hermione nodded at Snape, who held back near the entrance to the ruined citadel.

Bill clearly hadn't noticed him before. "Why–"

"It's not important. It just worked out that way." She pushed back the flap of the tent and looked at Harry. "I'll attempt to heal Harry now. Tell the professor–" she glanced at Snape one last time – "tell him I'll be out soon."

pp

Rush job or not, Bill's tent had an enclosing effect. The sound of the wind died upon her entering and the air was still and warm.

She'd seen Harry sleeping countless times before –in the Gryffindor common room, even in class – but he'd been young then, a boy. Now, he looked beautiful, exquisite. And dead.

His skin felt cool to the touch, but she felt traces of life underneath. She reached into her satchel for Snape's Augmenting Potion, fingered the top nervously. She recalled herself to the time she'd healed Parvati, the power that had flowed through her, the communion with Parvati's spirit, with perhaps that great reservoir of spirit energy, _Les Morts et les Mysteres_. She unstoppered the potion, administered fifteen drops, and grasped Harry's hand tightly.

It was as if, suddenly, no time had elapsed between this moment and when she had healed Parvati, as if existence as this other self were continuous, unmarred or undeterred by the workings of the temporal plane. Ribbons of light infused her and then became her – or she became them.

Beside her and all around her was Harry's spirit self, damaged almost beyond recognition. Whereas Parvati's had been like a knot to untangle, Harry's was a sheet of paper ripped to pieces, scattered to the wind – but the pieces called to her, one by one, shone their tiny lights, begged to rejoin their neighbors and be fused into one again. She saw them all at once in her mind's eye, threw her arms wide as if to embrace the world.

pp

It was dark when she came to, collapsed over Harry's body, his arm thrown over her in an accidental embrace. She felt his warmth beneath her, his chest rising and falling. She opened her eyes and saw, in the moonlight that seeped through the tent, his own eyes blink open.

"Hermione," he whispered hoarsely. "You came after all. I didn't think –" he trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief. He tightened his arm around her. "You did it. You really did it."

"It appears I did," she said. She sat up slowly. She felt tired, but not unpleasantly so. Harry sat up, too, so that they faced each other.

He looked at her, and then looked away, as if his feelings were too much to bear. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked her after a time.

Hermione closed her eyes. It was like remembering a dream as it slipped away, but she reeled it in, bit by bit. "I do now. I must say, those Inca magicians are not to be trifled with."

"So I've learned – elemental magic or no." He rubbed his forehead, whose scar had long since faded. "I expect the goblins will leave me alone now." His face, his voice, everything about him communicated a tremendous relief.

Hermione grabbed his hands. "Me, too. And then we can all go home – wherever that may be." She thought of Haiti, of the view of the Cloud Forest from the terraced garden, of her last interaction there with its creator. "I'll duck out and tell the others we're awake."

pp

Bill was standing sentinel right outside the tent. He had checked on them periodically, throughout the night, reassuring himself that Harry's color was back and both seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Snape had peered in as well, and assured Bill that, in his estimation, both would be waking shortly. His tone a bit peevish, he had asked that Bill congratulate Hermione on her success and departed. Some professionally rivalry there, no doubt.

Snape's assurance aside, Bill could have wept when Hermione emerged from the tent, apparently intact. She told him Harry was fine and asked about the professor's whereabouts.

"I think he's Apparated home," Bill said.

"He what?" Hermione cried in distress, to Bill's great surprise. At his look, she hastened to explain the professor's role in her Apparating there. "He – stranded me here, the bastard," she said, though Bill thought her heart wasn't in it. "I'll be useless for days."

"I'll help you, as best I can," Bill offered. "I'm not staying anyway. My work here is done. I've cracked every curse site on this mountain that I can. The Stone's curses I'd never be able to break if I took a hundred years, and I'm not sure I'd want to even if I could."

After a brief silence, Hermione asked quietly, "What if I could tell you exactly what each curse was?"

pp

The next morning thus found Hermione sitting on a low wall, watching with a host of goblins as Bill worked his trade. In the back of her mind, Snape's wordless departure burned. She shook her head. She would deal with that later. Besides, she had never seen a professional curse-breaker at work before, and she was Hermione Granger, after all. She must see this mystery through to its end; she would deal with the other in time.

Harry had felt no such compulsion. The goblins had, indeed, let him go now that they had what they wanted. They were practical, if odious, little creatures. She would be glad to be free of them when this chapter was completed.

It took three hours, but Bill finally dropped his wand at his side and stepped away from the stone, like a conductor after a triumphant performance. Even as he did so, the air cracked with unseen lightning, and the stone shattered into dust that shone in the sun all around them like flecks of gold. The dust settled slowly and the air seemed suddenly very still.

Where the stone had stood, there was now a stairway leading down into the mountain. Hermione stood on the wall to have a better look. On each step of the stair was an elaborate mosaic with a geometric border, and in the center of each mosaic, a figure. She squinted. Not a human figure – but one with pointed ears, a shriveled form, and long fingers.

She noticed then that the goblins, who had stood in a ring at a goodly distance from the stone before, were now approaching the stairway in unison: a noose tightening.

Before her logical mind could even tally the facts, she knew in her heart that she – that they all – had been utterly, utterly fooled.

Harry had never been the one the goblins hoped would unlock the stone.

She had.

pp

-------------------

Author's note: I would like to thank my husband for his fantastic editing and for encouraging me in this project!


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Snape made his way to the Apparation point. The air was bright but his heart was heavy. He had peered in on Hermione and Potter – he couldn't help himself – and witnessed Potter stirring in his sleep and throwing his arm around her in a half-embrace. The casualness of this act seemed to him like the most flagrant kind of possession. He couldn't bear it.

Many years later, when the events about to be recorded here had long blurred in the Magical public's memory to become a mere cautionary tale, Snape would on occasion, suddenly and without warning, be transported back to those moments in which his life – all life – hung in the balance. His near failure would seem indistinguishable from failure itself, and he would berate himself for pretending toward any sort of happiness. At such moments, what had propelled him that day seemed the most tenuous string of coincidence. Some might consider it a miracle, a sign of Providence. For Snape, it merely threw back the curtain to reveal our constant proximity to the abyss.

At the time, however, each of Snape's many moves seemed the perfect marriage of logic and instinct; he felt astonishingly calm.

It all began with a drunk Muggle.

"Señor!" Perhaps the Muggle had been calling for a while. Snape was too lost in brooding thought to notice. "You are not to go that way! Forbidden to tourists today! Mudslides on the trail today!"

Snape did not answer with his wand, for reasons that many years later continued to evade him. "I am returning _from_ the mountain top, as any fool can see. Do not detain me."

"Mudslides! Mudslides!" The Muggle was as tall as Snape and twice his heft. He stumbled toward Snape and grabbed him by the arm, his fingers closing perfectly round the sleeve that concealed the Dark Mark.

Then Snape's wand was in his hand, but hampered enough by the Muggle's grip that the Muggle saw it and had time to react. The reaction was unexpected: he immediately dropped to his knees at the sight of what most Muggles would perceive as a slender stick. "No! No! I do as I promise! Please! I know not you are a wizard? You look different from the others."

_The others?_

Lying was an old old friend and Snape sank into its embrace. "Did they not explain it to you? Or are you truly the fool you look?"

"They – I – they say nothing to me. They explain nothing. Only to keep away tourists, they said. Keep them away, and I will get my reward."

"They did not tell you I would be coming with your payment?"

"Payment? There was no talk of payment."

"Then they have erred in that as well. What exactly did they offer you?"

"They – they –"

Snape grabbed the Muggle, thrust him into mud, pointed his wand at the Muggle's gut. "What did they offer? Before I transform your intestines to razor wire."

The Muggle stared back up at him, befuddled, glazed. Then he said, "Peru."

"_Obliviate_."

Snape rushed back whence he'd come. The mudslides were a lie, but the trailhead was, nonetheless, damp and slippery. Snape's concentration was so focused on his footing that he almost ran headlong into Harry Potter.

pp

The boy was thicker than he'd ever imagined. Snape resented the breath he was wasting on Potter, who was trailing after him up the mountain. "Goblins don't interfere with Muggle politics, Potter. They offer bribes, pure and simple."

"So they lied," Harry panted. "And the Muggle was stupid enough to believe they'd give him Peru."

"Goblins never lie about payment – even to a Muggle. It is not their way. It's bad business. Besides, this Muggle has seen magic – not of the goblin parlor trick variety. He cowered when I pulled my wand. There are more parties at play here than goblins. Half-breeds, perhaps. Bought wizards."

"Bill?"

Snape glared back at him. "I could just as easily suspect you." Snape refused to waste any more energy on Potter's inanity. He could follow, or not.

pp

Hermione would later remember the slow, synchronized movements of the goblins as they closed in on the stairway – a ballet through-the-looking-glass. How long did she watch, hypnotized, before she took action? "Bill?" she shouted, leaping from the wall toward him. He seemed in a daze, recuperating from his curse-breaking efforts. "Bill! We must stop them!"

Bill looked up at her, squinting as if through a haze.

"This is wrong! This is not about gold – this –" Then she felt the first wave of power emanating from the stairway and fell back.

"Merlin's beard!" Bill exclaimed, and closed his eyes, gripping his wand against the current that threatened to bowl him down. "What _is _that? What –"

A column of light suddenly poured into the sky; halfway around the world, Albus Dumbledore woke from a deep sleep. Goblins began to descend the staircase.

"Bill! Can we seal the mountain again? Can you?"

"I don't know. It would take me an hour to recast the curses, maybe longer, and the stone is in pieces –" Another wave of magic silenced him. He grabbed Hermione's hand and they rode it out together.

"What have we done?"

Considering the state of her heart, Hermione's voice sounded surprisingly level. "Started the Fourth Goblin War. They're getting their powers back."

pp

In general, the History of Magic was a class that Hogwarts students emerged from with quill ink on their faces, or desk prints on their foreheads. Luckier ones perhaps retained memories of whispered flirtations, or pleasant daydreams. Or – in the case of one Hogwarts student anyway – scrolls and scrolls of scrupulously neat notes that could have fetched the contents of the entire Hogwarts Express sweets cart come exam time.

Hermione thus knew that the Third Goblin War – the longest and most bloody – ended with the Treaty of Avalon, in which the goblins agreed to a magical divestment of their powers. Only the most banal of tricks – things learned in the first months by Hogwarts First Years – remained to them.

It also occurred to her that the end of the Third Goblin War coincided perfectly with the last days of the Inca. The information in her brain even impressed her sometimes.

Did it fall upon the last of the Inca magicians to seal the magic away, deep within the mountain? Was Machu Picchu, lost to everyone, Muggle and Magical, besides the local people until a hundred years ago, a fortress to guard it? Did the Spaniards who destroyed similar talismans all over the Andes know something? Were they looking not just for gold, but power as well?

These questions all raced through Hermione's mind in a single moment just as a figure stepped onto the mountain top, hair blown back in the wind, wand out and eyes bright with the awareness of danger and magic.

"Harry!" cried Hermione.

Harry rushed to her side. "I felt the magic coming at me all the way up the mountain. I thought – it was just gold they were after – I –"

"There's no time for that now. I need you to help me reassemble the stone. Bill can seal it."

"Even if there's time, that may not be enough," Snape said, striding over a low wall to join them, wand in hand. "Inca curses may be but a trifle when the goblins get their power back."

"What else can we do?" Harry said.

"We can go in."

With a great flash of light, Bill and Snape's bodies flew backward into the stone wall and fell limp.

"I think not," said the shriveled half-breed perched behind them on the wall, his wand now pointed at Snape. Behind him, a near-giant pointed his wand at Hermione. "Harry Potter, well met."

Harry stood completely still, his wand limp at his side, his face averted.

"Harry?" Hermione said, staring at her friend.

A very long moment passed before Harry looked at her, his face like the stone surrounding them. "I'm sorry, 'Mione."

"You – you knew! You've known all along. You set me up, you – bastard!"

"Now, now," the half-breed said. "I would not insult Mr. Potter. Not if you value any power you might have in the new regime. And there is power to be had, my dear, as we all can feel. Now, if you would, Daggar?" Daggar seized Hermione's wand and took Snape's and Bill's as well.

Snape groaned weakly, his eyes fluttering. Unthinkingly, Hermione rushed to him.

Daggar raised his wand, but suddenly Harry said, in his most imperious, pay-homage-to-The-Boy-That-Lived voice, "I demand we re-discuss the terms of our agreement. You lied to me."

The half-giant turned toward him, giggling. It was not a pretty sound. "He is not so dimwitted after all."

"Clearly, my services were worth far more than what you offered, considering what is at stake."

The half-goblin spat, "You've negotiated your terms already, boy. You've got no leverage here. You'll be lucky if we let you live."

Potter raised his wand slightly. "You did not disarm me."

"No matter," said the half-goblin, closing his eyes as another wave of power emanated from the hole in the mountain. "All will soon be irrelevant. Besides, you have contracted not to raise a wand against us, just as we have you."

Harry's wavered some.

"You should congratulate yourself," the half-goblin continued. "Few have the opportunity to change the course of history twice."

"I feel very fortunate."

"I sense some remorse. Perhaps you wish you could perform the killing curse right now. Pity the contract forbids it. Or will you break it and face the consequences? Oh, I think not." From her position next to Snape, Hermione studied the tiny, withered wizard. He was gloating. The power spilling from the mountain was making him – and his cohort – careless. She fingered the Augmenting Potion in her pocket. Harry's pleas seemed to be occupying what little attention they possessed for matters beyond the mountain's core.

She slowly brought the potion to her lips, as she heard Harry say, "Perhaps I will go ahead and duel both of you at once. See if you are willing to break contract yourselves. Or would you like to give me what is mine? I have sacrificed everything to help you!"

Snape's injuries were surprisingly slight. Even in her trance, it occurred to her that these two villains, as sinister as they might seem, were no great wizards; surprise and betrayal were more their source of power than any spell. She positioned herself so that Snape's face was obscured from her enemies. Moments later, when his eyes fluttered open, she put her hand on his mouth. "Don't move. We're not alone."

The halfbreed continued. "What _would _satisfy you, Harry Potter?"

"I want an island."

"There are enough of those to go around," said the half-goblin.

"Someplace beautiful – peaceful. I deserve at least that."

"Done."

"And I want you to spare the lives of my friends."

"Easy enough – it's not a very long list at this point, is it?"

Harry seemed unfazed. His voice was tight and full of power and a kind of pain. "Spare Hermione," he commanded. "And Bill."

"And the other one?"

Harry laughed bitterly. "Snape?" He walked toward Hermione and Snape's body, still motionless against the wall – close enough that he might have seen Snape's eyes snap shut once more. "Should I spare Professor Snape?" Then he shouted, desperately and commandingly, "Snape!" An object whirled itself toward Snape as Harry called out, "Catch!" and ran toward the stairway leading into the mountain.

Both half-breeds looked helplessly for a moment at Potter, then in quick agreement pointed their wands at Hermione. "Stop, Harry Potter!" called the half-goblin. "Stop, or your friends will die."

"Just go!" Hermione cried.

The half-goblin lifted his wand. A loud thud issued behind him, as of a tree being felled. Just as the half-goblin turned to see his partner lying, eyes open, unmoving, he fell himself; Harry disappeared down the stairway.

Snape stood up, his face grim. His hand remembered well the curve and heft of Potter's wand – it was as if he were back again in Tom Riddle's cottage. Indeed, the situation was surprisingly like, down to the deafening magical noise. The very ground vibrated with it.

He looked at Hermione, and for one moment, it was all he could do to keep his wartime mask in place. But emotion had no place here. "Heal him," he said, with a quick gesture toward Bill. "Seal the mountain – no matter what happens. _Accio_ wand!" His wand sailed from Daggar's body into his grip. "Goodbye, Hermione." Before Hermione could respond, Snape had followed Harry into the mountain.

pp

There was a certain symmetry to it, wasn't there? Snape mused, as he sped down the stairway after Potter, nearly blinded by the light issuing from the depths. Surely he and Potter would meet their demise in the mountain, side by side, as they no doubt should have in Tom Riddle's cottage. Perhaps the Fates would even orchestrate their deaths so that they would be holding hands, just to complete their farcical resemblance to star-crossed lovers. Snape's only consolation was that his tie to Potter would at last be severed.

What did the boy think he would do, anyway, wandless against a fleet of goblins? Would he even be able to navigate the stairway? Perhaps he'd already slipped and tumbled down it, landing at the feet of the goblin horde, his neck broken. Snape had nearly stumbled himself several times, even having cast a quick spell to shade his eyes from the light. The stairway was uneven, the cliff wall it ran along grooved and jagged. Just in time, Snape saw a large gap in the stairway and leapt over it, just hitting the other side. The stair he landed on crumbled under his weight as he pushed up to the next, grabbing a knob of rock on the wall. The debris of the shattered step rattled as it fell down, down into the chasm. Several steps later, he heard the scattered echo of its hitting bottom. Well, that gap must have slowed the goblins. Any little bit helped.

All at once, the stairway opened into a broad cavern, illuminated by a powerful glow that seemed to emanate from the walls. The goblins – there were maybe thirty of them – were only steps ahead of him, and had begun to encircle a stone monolith that looked like a smaller replica of the Intihuatana Stone. They seemed lit from within, as if the light in the cavern had spilled into them.

But where was the boy? There was no place to hide in this chamber of light.

pp

Miserly and weak, gnarled and pitiful – so his people had been for all his long life. Gold was but a proxy for power, but most – slaving away in the bowels of Gringott's – had forgotten this.

A few had not. A few held on to the lore of the past. A few had bid their time. History and gold and time, those were the only weapons left to his people. Time saw wizards and witches turning on each other – and forgetting the past. Gold bought Muggles and Ministries. History led them here.

It was a slow progress down into the mountain. His people were not known for their agility. Silvermidge did not lead the way. He was no fool. The steps might be treacherous, worn or crumbling. Let those made foolish by their greed plummet to their doom. He had waited long enough for this day; a few seconds would not change what was inevitable.

For inevitable it was. There were rumors in the goblin world. Goblins listened through the walls in the chambers of Gringott's; goblins read precious documents. There were goblins who knew more about the wizarding world than wizards themselves. When word had reached him of the Girl, of her ability to untangle multiple curses, a plan had been set in motion. It had been just a matter of time before the stone would be unlocked. The Boy – Harry Potter – had been easy enough to play, he was so desperate for a return of his freedom. If pity were a goblin emotion, Silvermidge might even feel it for the Boy right now. What he must be thinking on the mountaintop now, with Daggar and Stringet! The Boy had been a failure in the cottage of the Voldemort wizard, and now, a failure again.

Yes, he would feel sorry for the Boy if he didn't already naturally despise him.

At the very moment that thought reached him, two strong hands clamped around his neck and pulled him into a narrow crevice in the rock.

"You!" Silvermidge spat.

"This is it, Silvermidge," the Boy said. "The end of the road."

Silvermidge would not succumb to panic. The Boy could be played. "For me, perhaps. Hurl me into the depths, if you dare. But there are many more of us than you. Every second, they get closer to being what we once were. Will you be able to stop us all? I think not."

"How do I stop it? How do I stop them? Tell me, or you will not live."

"Have you forgotten your contract with us? I doubt you are willing to suffer the consequences of breaking it. Do you want to become like us? Believe me, you do not want your powers stripped away. And even if you were willing to risk it, what then? Will you strangle me with your bare hands? Will you detain us all with your mere body? You truly are a fool. You think you are destined to play the role of the hero? All you've ever been, Harry Potter, is bait. A decoy. A child acting while the grown-ups did the real work." If the Boy only loosed his grip slightly, Silvermidge could Blink out of his reach.

"You're right," the Boy said flatly, but continued to hold him fast.

"Time works against you. My people are closer to their goal. This is what in business we call 'an impasse.'"

It was clear the Boy was frozen with indecision. Then, he turned his head for a quick moment toward a noise outside the crevice – the sound of debris falling down, down into the chasm and the scattered echo of its hitting bottom. It was enough. Silvermidge Blinked out of his grasp back to the stairway. He rushed downward into the mountain.

Too soon, Potter was on him again, hands clamping down on his small form even more tightly than before. This was getting ridiculous. He would not come this far only to be stopped by this pitiful fool.

"How do I stop them?" the Boy demanded again. "Or I _will_ hurl you off the ledge."

"Your threat is empty, Boy, and we both know it."

The Boy looked up ahead, suddenly intent, as if something caught his interest. "I'll carry you to them. You will tell them to stop."

"It's all been set in motion, boy. There is no stopping it."

The Boy didn't seem to heed his warning. He lifted him up and began to carry him forward, but after only a small length of the stairway, he put him down.

"No." He said. "I've a better idea."

What now?

"Do you really want to share the power with all those goblins? Aren't they beneath you?" Was the boy really trying to cut a deal with him? "Wouldn't you rather…"

Silvermidge Blinked out of his grip again, further down the stairs – except there were no stairs there at all.

Too late, he reached for a knob of rock just out of his grasp. "You –"

"Goodbye," the Boy said.

It was the last word Silvermidge ever heard.

pp

Clearly the boy had fallen to his death. Typical. It was all up to Snape once more.

Light continued to pour from the Intihuatana-stone-in-miniature, infusing the goblins. Their eyes were closed, their withered bodies swayed in unison, a grotesque chorus.

Snape operated on instinct. "_Confringo_!" he called, wand pointed at the stone, but the shattering spell scattered like a mist.

The goblins turned toward him. Their eyes were pools of light. Snape raised his arm to shield his face from the glare, but could see just enough to note that they all carried wands now and the wands were raised.

His mind raced. What could they do to him? They had never been trained, never done more than a handful of parlor tricks. It might be like battling a classroom full of first years. He smirked in spite of himself.

"_Crucio!_" said the goblins in unison.

Not a classroom of first years, then.

Snape was no stranger to _Crucio_. No, no one who had served Voldemort was. This _Crucio_ was different. Not as intense, certainly, but there was a sickening gentleness to it, a slow-moving, paralyzing ache that began in his chest and radiated out to his feet and hands. Whereas the Cruciatus Curse pushed all thought but pain away, Snape found himself quite aware of his environment – of the brightness of the cave, of the goblins facing him, their eyes aglow.

Of, suddenly, Harry Potter on the platform above the stone, bathed in light, shouting in his bright, boyish voice, "Stop!"

Like that, the pain was gone. The goblins faced the stone once more, their wands pointed at Harry. The goblin named Trowel spoke. "Don't! It is the Boy! The contract forbids us to touch him – and he us. He is irrelev –"

"_Avada Kedavra_!" In a flash of green light, Trowel fell. Then the goblin at his left. Snape would kill as many as he could. He saw no other course of action.

The goblins turned toward him again. Snape dashed behind a cave formation, leaving a wake of missed goblin curses behind him. Two down, some fifty newly empowered goblins to go. He knew it in his heart: this would not go well. He hoped above the surface Hermione and Bill fared better.

Harry long ago forgotten, the goblins slowly crept toward him. At that pace, he could kill maybe six or seven before they reached him. Then – but no matter. It was an ignominious end, but he'd never expected better.

He stepped out from behind his shelter, shouting the killing curse once, and then twice more, just as the goblins raised their wands.

Many things happened at once. Three goblins fell; raspy goblin voices called out all matter of curses; and, in a blur of motion, Harry Potter leapt in front of Snape and took the curses, every one. He fell at Snape's feet.

Even Snape could not help being touched by such a gesture, useless though it had been. He looked up from Potter's body, hoping the distraction would allow him to kill at least a few more of the creatures before he was done for – but, rather than a host of the enemy with wands poised to kill him, he saw on every one a look of sheer horror as they stared at Potter's limp body. A second later, each goblin dropped his wand as if it had become white hot in his hands.

Then Snape understood: they had broken the contract. Centuries after their people's powers had first been divested, they had lost their magic a second time.

There was little time to dwell on this; he could feel the magic pouring back out of them, swirling about the room. What would happen now? He didn't care to find out. He picked up Potter's body, slung it over his shoulder, and made his way up the stairway as fast as he could.

pp

"_Reparo,_" Hermione said again, fusing another several pieces of the stone in place.

"I'll need the stone in the opening soon," Bill called out, breathless, between curses. "I'm nearly done. You?"

"Nearly," Hermione shouted. It was torture, re-assembling the stone, a tedious task so at odds with the mountain humming with magic, and with her heart pounding with concern for those who had gone within.

She restored the last few pieces. "There!"

Bill and Hermione looked at each other.

"It must be done," Bill said. "We have to seal them inside. We have no choice."

For once, logic left her. "Wait! Can't we just wait?"

"Hermione! You know it's what we have to do!"

"Give him another few minutes!"

"I know how you feel about Harry, but –"

Snape emerged from the mountain. There were no Daily Prophet photographers to record his exit, the Boy Who Lived slung over his shoulder, both Potter's and his wands held together in his other hand, his body seeming to glow with the light that still poured from the mountain.

He looked at the reassembled stone and pointed his wand at it. "_Mobilicautes!_" The monolith uprooted itself, sailed through the air, and landed with a mighty crack over the opening in the mountain. Light still escaped from the seams between it and the opening – the stone seemed to glow like a giant ember. "Seal it!" he said to Bill. "Now!" Breathing heavily, he placed Harry's body unceremoniously on the ground, where it lay motionless.

"Harry!" Hermione ran to his side.

Bill stepped up to the stone. A few moments later, the magical noise ceased, the light from the mountain was snuffed out, and all plunged into stillness. Bill rubbed his eyes, as if he'd woken up from a long nap. He looked at Snape, then at Hermione cradling Harry's limp form. "Dead?" he said.

Snape shook his head. With his luck, he could only assume Harry would soon be very much alive, intimately healed by Hermione once again, and, this time, legitimately the hero of the wizarding world.

No matter. Snape walked over to Bill and put his hand on his shoulder for a moment. Though his face was expressionless, there was no mistaking the warmth behind the gesture. He caught Hermione's eye and nodded briefly, staying long enough to watch her turn her attentions to the boy. He began his trek down the path.

The stillness of centuries filled the heart of the mountain.

pp

Author's notes:

1. I'd like to dedicate this last chapter to Barbara for both her encouragement in this project and her generosity during a dark time.

2. Stay tuned for the next and final chapter – I will post it tomorrow. That's right. I'm done (minus an edit here or there).


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 – LAST CHAPTER!

The _Daily Prophet_ reporters swarmed the citadel. Hermione, weary of being interviewed, hid in Bill Weasley's tent for a while.

"You in there, Hermione?" asked the tent's owner.

Hermione grunted an answer.

"You're clothed and everything?"

"Oh, come in already."

Bill ducked in. "They're everywhere! It's like the final battle all over again, isn't it?"

"For you. I avoided that mad rush."

"Yes," said Bill. "You did, didn't you? You like hiding. Harry's out there soaking it all up."

They exchanged a look. It didn't need to be said that neither of them would tell the world about his deal with the Gringott's. Hermione supposed it was a zero-sum game. Endanger the world, then save it. At least he had told her what seemed like the truth this time about what had happened.

Hermione stretched and then sighed. "Good thing all wizards do with money is put it in vaults. In the Muggle world, the shutting of a major bank would probably plunge the whole world into economic crisis."

Bill shrugged. He had not inherited his father's curiosity about the Muggle world.

"What do you suppose they'll do with the goblins?" he said finally.

"Most of them claim ignorance, and there's no way to know, really, who was involved besides those who apparently perished in the mountain. I imagine they'll permit Gringott's to reopen after a time. But I doubt people will sleep through lectures on the Goblin Wars – at least for a few years."

"Maybe they should find someone other than Binns to teach it."

"That's the problem with ghosts. They don't retire. Ever."

They were quiet for a time. "Hermione?" Bill said softly. She looked at him, puzzled. "Does Parvati ever mention me?"

"A bit," Hermione managed.

"Okay," sighed Bill. "Time to let that go, then." He stood up, stretched, scratched his head. "Guess I'm no longer under the employ of Gringott's. Not sure what to do now."

Hermione smiled at him. "Return to Hogwarts – with me."

"I think Professor McGonagall wanted to spit in my face when I backed out of my contract the first time."

"Don't worry about Minerva. I'll make sure she understands."

pp

Some time would pass, however, before Hermione herself returned to Hogwarts. She had some unfinished business to attend to, even more pressing than what she had with Professor Snape. Or so she told herself. At any rate, she knew where to find him.

Why had he left, though, so abruptly – and twice? There was no mistaking what had happened between them – or had been about to happen – before Bill's owl had swooped down between them.

She shook herself from her musings about the mercurial professor. There were other matters at hand.

There was Master Bertrand, for example, listening quietly to her account of the events at Machu Picchu as they paused between lessons. She had been in Haiti for two weeks, and it was the first she had spoken of it.

"You witnessed great power on the mountaintop."

"I did," Hermione said. The laboratory was cool, but the air outside was hot; Hermione knew this the way she somehow knew that the sun was still up outside while she was in a Muggle theater for a matinee. She breathed in the smells. She would, she was convinced, remember this subtle scent of earth and herb all her life. It might always smell to her of failure – but that seemed to matter little now.

"What was it like to be in the presence of that power?"

In her mind she saw goblins marching wordlessly down into the mountain. "Horrible," she admitted.

"You were not drawn to it?"

"I didn't say that."

They were silent for a time. Hermione had the sense that Master Bertrand was waiting for her to say more – to say something important, but she no longer could step into the part of the eager pupil.

"I feel you are expecting some kind of epiphany, but I look into myself and there's none forthcoming – not any time soon. I feel – scooped out somehow. But it's not unpleasant. I feel both more and less than myself." She looked at him, a bit sadly. "I owe you such a debt for all your kindness, but whatever drove me to you is gone. I'm not sure I even remember what it was."

Master Bertrand smiled – a rarity – as if she had said something profound. "You owe me nothing, _pitit mwen_. You will always come and go here with my blessing."

She knew he meant the blessing part quite literally – he was a Wizard – but she liked the Muggle sense of the phrase, too. Her parents had said something quite similar, in fact, when she had left their house for the last time. In their deep love for her, they let her go. There might be an epiphany in there, somewhere.

While she was thinking this, Master Bertrand said. "Try again once or twice before you leave."

pp

"Hermione!" Parvati called out from the window – the same window through which they had together seen Bill and the professor for the first time. "I'll be right down!"

Moments later, the two embraced. "You're back! Madame Pomfrey is expecting you in the clinic soon – but first, you must tell me everything. I've only read the _Prophet _– and that's no help. What really happened?"

They easily fell into one of their favorite walks, and Hermione did tell, but by no means all.

"So you're a hero again," Parvati summed up.

"Not really. Put together a jigsaw puzzle while the men went into the mountain. I will take credit for opening up the mountain, though, and endangering the world. Partial credit. Bill and Harry deserve some as well."

"Hermione. How could any of you have known? You all behaved exactly as anyone would under the circumstances! Don't be hard on yourself."

Hermione smiled at her friend. "I missed you."

"Missed you, too. It's nice of you to come back, if only for a bit. We'll take what we can get. Let's get you to Madame Pomfrey. She wants to know all about your plans for Muggle medical school."

Several days passed. The beginning of the school year approached, and yet Snape did not appear. Hermione casually remarked on this to Minerva, who merely said that Severus always delayed the unpleasant resumption of school until the last possible minute.

She divided her time between helping Poppy prepare the clinic for the year and visiting with Parvati and Minerva. Her life would be consumed by work soon enough. Aside from her agitation regarding the professor's absence, it was a pleasant respite.

One day, her work with Poppy was interrupted by a surprise summons from the Headmistress.

"Ah, Hermione," said Minerva upon her entrance. "Thank you for coming so quickly. You have an – I believe – unexpected guest."

Hermione glanced then to the chair across the room. The woman sitting in it was so out of context that it took her a minute to even recall her name, though she remembered the face well.

"Caroline Fudge!" she said in surprise.

"Miss Granger," said the Minister's daughter.

"Well, now," said Minerva. "I'll let you girls catch up." She disappeared behind one of the many panels.

Hermione was quite at a loss.

Caroline spoke first. "Let us tour the grounds, if you don't mind. I have not been here in many years." Hermione wordlessly nodded her assent. Indeed, she wasn't sure what else to do. They walked out in awkward silence. When they at last opened one of the many doors to the grounds, Miss Fudge began, "Miss Granger, I know my sudden appearance here might seem rather puzzling."

"It is – unexpected."

"I suppose I might congratulate you on your role at Machu Picchu."

"You might."

"According to Severus, it was quite a bit more extensive than the _Daily Prophet_ reports."

"I do not read the _Prophet_."

"Severus seems to quite admire you – in a professional capacity, of course."

"Of course."

"Yes, he speaks of you highly. I have never heard him speak so glowingly of a colleague – from the Muggle world, anyway."

"It is kind of him to make an exception for me."

"Miss Granger, I consider myself a modern witch. Like my father, I do not hold to the prejudices of the past."

"That is good of you."

"But I do hope you understand that Severus belongs to a more ancient world." They had reached the pond, and Caroline turned to face her. In hushed tones, she continued. "There are certain unfortunate rumors that have made their way to me. I find it unlikely you have not heard them as well. You seem a nice sort of girl and I would hate to have you hurt by them."

"You may rest easy, Miss Fudge. Few rumors reach me here."

"Nonetheless, I feel it is my duty to forewarn you, should it ever come to pass that they do." Caroline paused for a moment. "Miss Granger, no one from the Snape line steps outside the ancient ways. Not even Augustus."

Hermione laughed. "I have no designs on Augustus."

"That is not to whom I refer, as you are well aware. Heed my words, Miss Granger. Any congress between you and the professor would – well, I would hate to have you compromised in any way. Consider this some sisterly advice from one witch to another. You will never be more than an idle flirtation or a disposable conquest to a man of Severus' caliber. You are not from our world, and I do not believe you understand."

"Oh, Miss Fudge, I believe I understand you quite well."

"If you even remotely care about Severus, you will not pursue him!"

"If I am destined to never be any more than an idle flirtation, then why should my actions matter?"

"You believe yourself so much cleverer than the rest of us. Your tone does not become you."

"I will act according to my judgment where Severus or any other man is concerned, not according to the 'ancient' customs in which words like 'congress' and 'compromised' still have currency. You are a modern witch only in your manipulation of tradition to suit your own purpose or to toss it aside when it does not."

"Just see what happens, Miss Granger. See what doors close to you. To you both. You are a foolish, selfish girl. I was trying to spare you humiliation and disgrace! I was trying to do you a kindness!"

"Good day, Miss Fudge! I ask you to spare me your kindnesses in the future. They are not worth my time." Hermione left her agape at the pond and slammed the nearest door into the castle with great satisfaction.

pp

The next morning, a familiar-seeming owl dropped a letter with Minerva at breakfast. As Hermione was trying to place the owl, Minerva looked at her with a puzzled, but amused expression.

"What?"

"I've received a most diverting, if confusing, letter from none other than the Assistant to the Assistant Minister."

"Neville?"

"Yes. It might be of interest to you."

Hermione took the scroll, her curiosity piqued.

"Dear Professor McGonagall,

I am beholden to the Minister, as you are well aware, and he insists I write you to warn that two of your staff, thrown together by recent events, seem to have formed an imprudent attachment which never should have existed otherwise. While the Minister normally would not quibble with such a triviality, it has also come to his attention that one of the parties intends to become rather immersed in the Muggle world in the months to come. The other party is a wizard whom the Minister is convinced is temperamentally unsuited to assimilation with said world, even for short times involving transit or turns about the block. The Ministry of Magic, in particular the Muggle Affairs Department, with which the Minister is most keenly engaged, would like to formally state its objection to such an ill-advised match which threatens the security of us all. It is not in our business, of course, to dictate matters of the heart, but it falls on you as Headmistress to discourage these parties from further engagement, as per rule A-96 of the Hogwarts Charter (ca 1440) regarding interstaff relationships. I apologize for the formality and brevity of this missive and remain

Your Student and Servant,

Neville Longbottom"

"Well," said Minerva. "What do you think of that?"

"I am astonished," Hermione said, honestly.

"I had hoped," Minerva said, "that Cornelius would have become somewhat less of a twit after Voldemort's demise, but he consistently disappoints me. Imagine! You do see what he's implying, do you not?"

"I am not sure…" Hermione said.

"It's about you! You, off to your Muggle doctoring academy, or whatever it's called, and I can only guess Severus – for who else would be described as 'temperamentally unsuited to assimilation' – or to pretty much anything involving other human beings, I might add? Yes, I suppose your rendezvous at Machu Picchu was more than just coincidence. Oh, and that must be why Caroline Fudge paid you a visit – to warn you off her intended. My! I have not been so amused in months. At least now, with the war over and Machu Picchu silent at last, that buffoon's antics are at worst inconvenient, and at best, extremely diverting. Well. How shall we make him sweat, hmmm? Not that he needs our assistance in that department, the fat fool."

Hermione found herself unable to respond to Minerva's query, as her mind was quite busy with another, more essential one regarding Neville's letter: What did it mean?

pp

The first day of school approached. "I believe Bill has returned to Hogwarts," Hermione said to Parvati as they made their way to the first staff meeting of the year.

"He has," Parvati said. "He stopped by this morning."

"You're still friends then," Hermione said.

"Just."

"So much for Trelawney's prediction."

"It's funny," Parvati said. "I used to take such comfort in the idea of Divination. I used to like to think that our fate is laid out ahead of us and if we were to look in the right way, in the right direction, we could see it and prepare ourselves."

"And now?"

"Knowing what is in store – it doesn't help. Nothing happens like you'd expect. Not with me, anyway."

"Nor with any of us."

"You will come visit us every chance you get?"

"I will."

"I can't believe you're voluntarily going to this meeting when you're not even on staff anymore."

"I'm – curious," Hermione said.

Had it been only a year since she'd sat in this same room with this same group of people for the first time? Had it been only a year since Professor Snape had turned his critical eye toward her? Yet she might have preferred that to now, when he did not look her way, not once. He and Bill sat side by side, exchanging a whispered word now and then. Bill could make an inanimate object chatty.

A few times she thought she felt his gaze, but it disappeared whenever she looked his way, and again, the question plagued her: What did it mean?

That evening at dinner in the Great Hall, the rest of the staff engaged in typical post-summer chatter, as well as animated debate regarding the happenings at Machu Picchu. Hermione permitted herself to remain silent. Caroline had not been wrong – the _Daily Prophet _had treated Hermione as no more than a footnote. It was the name Harry Potter that was on everyone's tongue – again. Perhaps he would get another chance at that ministry appointment he said he'd wanted. Or perhaps this time he would garner his hero's due more wisely. Hermione hoped so, and often even believed it.

She glanced at the professor once more. He had been as silent as she. What did the professor believe? What did he think about her? About anything?

pp

After the meeting, Hermione walked up the long stairs that led to the tallest tower. The air was brisk at the top and she pulled her cloak around her ears. Her mind was swimming. In three days, she would be leaving. There would be visits, of course. She would not abandon Minerva or Parvati, but –

"Master Bertrand writes me that congratulations are in order."

The voice should have startled her, but it did not. It was then she realized she'd been waiting for it.

"Yes, I suppose they are." He joined her at her side, and the two looked out of the turret window together. "I succeeded when I let go of the need to. You talked once about wanting to 'own the magic,' like Voldemort. It wasn't until the mountaintop that I knew what you meant – and then could see it in myself."

"It is a terrible thing to see in oneself. I would have spared you that."

"I wouldn't. I'm glad. If nothing else, it makes me understand you better. You are rather an enigma, you know."

"Miss Granger," he said. Did his voice tremble? "I will ask you few favors in the years ahead, but will you face me now?"

She did.

His cadence had suggested more words to come, but he stood now in silence.

"Professor?"

"I congratulate you on your success, not that it surprises me."

"Thank you, Professor. But I do not think that is what you want to say to me."

He stared at her for another long moment. She dropped her eyes, unable to withstand his gaze. "Hermione," he said at last. "Hermione – for so you are in my thoughts – forgive me this liberty – I have been told my face is unreadable, but I do not believe that is so. Not for you. Look at me."

She met his eyes once more. No, it was not true for her. Not anymore. Softly, she managed, "I still do like words, you know."

Snape laughed – laughed! – and pulled her to him. "My dearest Hermione."

This was the homecoming she had waited for – oh, for how long? She had searched for it at Hogwarts, and with Harry, and in Haiti, and now, now she had arrived and it was almost too much. How could so still and silent an embrace be too much? She felt as if she were falling, plummeting from the turret.

"Shhh…," he whispered into her hair, as if to quiet her very thoughts. "It is all over now."

It was some time before they left the tower.

"I had an interesting visit a few days ago from Cornelius Fudge's daughter," Snape said later as they walked the grounds, "although I do not believe it had the intended effect."

"Ah," Hermione said. "Yes, I do not think I eased her fears that I would drag you down into the mud with me."

"All Caroline cares about his her own standing. I must say, if it had occurred to me years ago that were I to a Muggle-born, Caroline and her ilk would leave me in peace forever, I would have found the nearest Muggle and immediately proposed."

"I'm glad my lineage is so convenient to you. It is a relief, too, that you haven't altered overnight and begun reciting flowery love poems to me."

"'Oh my love's like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in June.'"

"Stop."

"Perhaps you would prefer, 'I have seen roses damasked, red and white, but no such roses see I in her cheeks.'"

"I would, as a matter of fact."

"Or Lewis Carroll?"

"Absolutely – especially if it involves crocodiles and little fish."

"You remember."

"How could I forget?" She then seized his hand, temporarily shaking off the dissonance of engaging in such a schoolgirl gesture with Professor Snape. "When did you know you were in love with me?"

"Ah, that question. Was it at the Library? I do not know myself. Gradually it dawned on me that your good favor is more important to me than any other's."

"In that it's important at all."

"Precisely."

She squeezed his hand. "This is nice."

"Oh, Miss Granger," he said, his eyes glinting in the darkness. "It will get quite a bit nicer."

He was right.

"Tell me this," she said later. "Why did you wait so long to return?"

"Fear, I suppose. I saw you with Potter and had no reason to believe he would not win all once again – and word came to me you would soon be leaving Hogwarts. I didn't want to burden you with my unresolved affections. Then Caroline appeared and gave me reason to hope."

"I'll have to write and thank her for that. Otherwise, I shudder to think what might have happened."

"As a modern witch, you could have pursued me, eligible and willing bachelor that I am. I might ask you why you went back to Haiti."

"I thought you of all people would understand my need to have some resolution there."

"I do understand," he smiled. "Now. You must forgive me if I did not feel secure in your regard for me."

"Well," Hermione said. "I have abused you awfully to your face at one point or another."

"Nothing I didn't deserve."

Hermione considered him. "Do you think in the years to come I will be able to wean you from self-flagellation?"

"Perhaps I shall deserve it less under your tutelage."

"Oh my. A reversal of roles! I might enjoy this."

"Yes, I think you might."

"Shall we start right now?"

pp

Some unpleasant tasks, however, lay before them, Hermione in particular. One such task sat before her now. Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress, was staring at her protégé with a kind of shocked horror. "If I did not know you better, I would assume this is some kind of joke."

"It most definitely is not."

"You and Severus? I cannot believe it. How? How long? Why was I unaware? Are you completely mad?"

"Oh, Minerva, if you doubt me, how shall I fare with all the others? But to answer your last question, anyway, if this is madness, I welcome it."

"Hermione, I cannot bless this, not when I know what I know! Merlin's Beard, the man's history is a patchwork of lies and turnabouts. You cannot trust him!"

"But I do – trust him. If you knew all I knew, Minerva, you'd trust him too."

"But what he did to Harry in Tom Riddle's cottage –"

Hermione's look silenced her. "I cannot speak of that day. Severus, for reasons I do not understand, insists I do not. Just know that all is not what it seems to be."

Minerva sat back and sipped her tea thoughtfully. Long moments passed. "You are happy?"

"I am. Most terribly."

Minerva stared in her tea cup. Her mind was whirring, viewing this new puzzle from all angles, assimilating it, and seeking its advantages. Hermione felt the room abuzz with her cogitation. "I suppose this means that you'll be staying here longer? Delaying your plans for your doctor school? Or at least visiting often. It tickles me to think what they're saying in London. Oh, and poor Caroline Fudge. Of course, that _was _the purpose of her visit after all. And here I thought it was some Ministry politics in the wake of the Machu Picchu disaster. My! I am losing my edge. Albus was right. Peace makes one soft."

Hermione smiled broadly. "Let's drink to peace, then. I like soft."

pp

Several weeks later, the Professor, Bill, and Parvati walked Hermione to the Apparation point beyond Hogwarts. "I will miss you all, though of course I'll be back every chance I get."

She embraced Parvati and Bill in turn. She looked up at Snape. "Walk with me a bit further."

"I am yours to command."

Hermione grinned. "I know."

Hermione and Snape continued down the path, arm in arm. Bill and Parvati stared after them. "Tell me, Parvati," Bill said. "Am I a complete fool? How did I miss this? How long has this been going on?"

Parvati sighed. "For the professor, I think some time. For Hermione, I am as in the dark as you."

Bill squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them, opened them again. "When I was a kid, I assumed she'd marry my brother. Then there was Harry. But this – who would have thought?"

Parvati looked at Bill, held his gaze for once. "Who would have thought any of us would be where we are now? You, back at Hogwarts instead of off adventuring. The professor, in love. Hermione, off of magic – for a while, anyway."

"And you?"

Parvati laughed. "Me saying something even remotely deep. At least Harry is still a hero. That's comforting."

Bill chose not to respond. He listened thoughtfully to the sound of Snape's footsteps returning to them. "It's like we had a script all set out for us and then someone rewrote it."

"But here we are."

"Yes."

Snape joined them and they made their way back to the castle.

The end.

Author's notes: Thank you, again, to all who have read and reviewed. As frivolous as it may be, this project has renewed my creative drive as nothing has since my college days, and has given me confidence that I can actually complete a novel-length work of fiction. That would not have been possible without you all taking the time to comment. (So please… take time to comment!)

I must also mention one final time that I am blessed to live with an outstanding editor who is also my best friend.


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